the Zine Archive and Publishing Project is moving out of the Richard Hugo House. This is huge. For near-on ten years now, that's been a goal of ZAPP's, at times a casual, "wouldn't it be nice", at others a more pressing concern, but due to a variety of issues, resets, and general struggle I won't get into here (but may later) it hasn't happened til now.
This. Is. Huge.
It is not overestimating it to say that ZAPP has likely been the most important of places in my re-entry into Seattle. In 2009 I started volunteering weekly, while I was still living in Stanwood, working hanging Christmas Lights, at ZAPP's open hours. In 2010 I accepted an internship writing PR (which went through Hugo House) and helping co-ordinate volunteers. This culminated in my Internship Show, Jesus Christ Made Seattle Under Protest, which re-sparked my interest in visual art (an interest that goes through it's own series of languishes and resets.) Many of the new, lasting friendships, artistic collaborations and I've made have been through ZAPP-- I met Bryan Edenfield, without whom there'd be no book of Filthy Jerry Poems at ZAPP. I was in a writer's group with him, Rainey Warren, and Emily Wittenhagen the latter of whom gave me a job at the Hugo House Bar, which in turn helped me to get my foot in the door in Seattle's bar scene (From the OTHER side of the bar. please.) It's where I met Lindsey Tibbot, who'd go on to marry David Stone (both of whom put me up when a spot I was going to live fell through at the last minute.)If you factor in that employment as an outgrowth of ZAPP, I also met Marty, Brian McGuigan, Paul Nelson and many others not-too-indirectly, through ZAPP.
I'm super stoked to be reading at their Release Party. I'd say more but the Library is closing.
Showing posts with label people as places as people. Show all posts
Showing posts with label people as places as people. Show all posts
Sunday, 9 March 2014
Thursday, 18 August 2011
zabrecky makes himself disappear
or if you're taking over, then it's over
LA is a city that always dangles a carrot three feet away
from the noses of its citizens. this arrives to screen,
by phone, from my friend who holds microphones and wails
in an attempt to corral all the searing noise around him
into a cohesive statement. beat. riff. rhythm. anthem,
even rising to the sky, but stopped at last by smog.
songs try their best to find their way out of the city,
in the bumping trunks of riders, in the collapsing chanteuses
somewhere just outside hollywood, the bricked off lofts
of silverlake. I can't get back there. I can't get into it.
I can't even name a street that isn't already famous,
despite the hours behind the wheel of a twelve wheeler.
Someone tells me something about Bukowski, the city making
him what he was. About sleaze and punk and availability of
everything. i think about a poem I wrote ten years ago and
how I heard the subject turned to magic after a collection
of late 90s new wave songs failed to advance his neighborhood.
he is probably on stage tonight, somewhere on the second floor
of a tall building, wearing a funny hat and introducing
women in fancy underwear to a crowd who don't have shows that night.
_________________________________________________________
the opening quote is from Robert Lashley, of Scume Eating, etc, who are in LA right now, or leaving it, on their way to Spokane. The prompt was from Theresa Mitchell, from a while back, who told me to write about a musician who influenced me. I was ostensibly going to write about Rob Zabrecky, from Possum Dixon, a band I liked in High School, but obviously, I ended up writing about LA. As you can tell from the time of day and sloppy prose style, i wrote it at work.
LA is a city that always dangles a carrot three feet away
from the noses of its citizens. this arrives to screen,
by phone, from my friend who holds microphones and wails
in an attempt to corral all the searing noise around him
into a cohesive statement. beat. riff. rhythm. anthem,
even rising to the sky, but stopped at last by smog.
songs try their best to find their way out of the city,
in the bumping trunks of riders, in the collapsing chanteuses
somewhere just outside hollywood, the bricked off lofts
of silverlake. I can't get back there. I can't get into it.
I can't even name a street that isn't already famous,
despite the hours behind the wheel of a twelve wheeler.
Someone tells me something about Bukowski, the city making
him what he was. About sleaze and punk and availability of
everything. i think about a poem I wrote ten years ago and
how I heard the subject turned to magic after a collection
of late 90s new wave songs failed to advance his neighborhood.
he is probably on stage tonight, somewhere on the second floor
of a tall building, wearing a funny hat and introducing
women in fancy underwear to a crowd who don't have shows that night.
_________________________________________________________
the opening quote is from Robert Lashley, of Scume Eating, etc, who are in LA right now, or leaving it, on their way to Spokane. The prompt was from Theresa Mitchell, from a while back, who told me to write about a musician who influenced me. I was ostensibly going to write about Rob Zabrecky, from Possum Dixon, a band I liked in High School, but obviously, I ended up writing about LA. As you can tell from the time of day and sloppy prose style, i wrote it at work.
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Five things to consider, one week in:
5) the ever-so-slightly larger scale of everything. not just that cars are bigger, or roads are wider, or houses are spaced out to the degree that I've yet to be in a neighbourhood that strikes me as "poor" or "run down". . . simply because at least everyone has a yard. its sort of like comical movie props designed for a large dwarf or an adolescent whose found themselves thrust into maturity like a bouquet of flowers from an awkward suitor into the face of a confused love interest.
6) dude. pizza. dude. see above comment.
7) my new sisters and the way they sort of laugh at my mom but never leave her side, that its already weird to think of my family without them around.
8) visiting my grandmothers. in case you were considering it, you know, for a laugh, lemme say this: don't. have. a stroke. even a small one.
9) been to seattle properly twice now. the first time i saw one person i'd not expected to see. the second time i saw five. been back what? a week? ridiculous.
6) dude. pizza. dude. see above comment.
7) my new sisters and the way they sort of laugh at my mom but never leave her side, that its already weird to think of my family without them around.
8) visiting my grandmothers. in case you were considering it, you know, for a laugh, lemme say this: don't. have. a stroke. even a small one.
9) been to seattle properly twice now. the first time i saw one person i'd not expected to see. the second time i saw five. been back what? a week? ridiculous.
Friday, 26 June 2009
Squalor Victoria: London and back again.
After Cardiff it was London time with (definitely) old friends and the odd (relatively) new one. From the age of 13-21 I was in a young writers critique group/collective/gang of hooligans called, ahem "Inducers of Insanity." Largely for the reactions we provoked from Katherine, who was the real-life grown-up that hosted/led/cat-herded us in and out if productivity. Lots to write about those years I guess,
but the important part is that now grown, Eva Z is married to David and they live in Brussels. Shane and Becca live in Dublin. I live in Wales. Kim lives in Amsterdam and is moving to London come fall. This leaves out a few (notably James, Betsy, Deb and Arlo) but was critical enough mass for a legit IOI reunion, complete with writing exercises and everything.
After a quick coffee with Katie (swansea, then london, then back to swansea and wherever else, half the people I meet are travelers) met the crew at Hyde Park.
Hadn't seen Eva or Kim for about 8 years. People do change, but they also don't. It was strange for about a half hour, all of us riding the bus to Willesden Green where we spent the days, but then felt completely natural.
Look me up next time we're in the same city. . .
Or even on the same continent, really.
and it felt like we will.
also sort of makes me want to get a job where I'm never anywhere too long. thoughts you have on a bumpy coach when you can't sleep or write crossing over to the other side of the Severn.
the last few days have been pretty rough and tumble on all counts. i'd be lying if i said i wasn't a bit worse for wear and worn out. i think i've at least got better perspective on it than last time i left a place, probably not as good as the next time.
that hardly helps in the moment, though.
but the important part is that now grown, Eva Z is married to David and they live in Brussels. Shane and Becca live in Dublin. I live in Wales. Kim lives in Amsterdam and is moving to London come fall. This leaves out a few (notably James, Betsy, Deb and Arlo) but was critical enough mass for a legit IOI reunion, complete with writing exercises and everything.
After a quick coffee with Katie (swansea, then london, then back to swansea and wherever else, half the people I meet are travelers) met the crew at Hyde Park.
Hadn't seen Eva or Kim for about 8 years. People do change, but they also don't. It was strange for about a half hour, all of us riding the bus to Willesden Green where we spent the days, but then felt completely natural.
Look me up next time we're in the same city. . .
Or even on the same continent, really.
and it felt like we will.
also sort of makes me want to get a job where I'm never anywhere too long. thoughts you have on a bumpy coach when you can't sleep or write crossing over to the other side of the Severn.
the last few days have been pretty rough and tumble on all counts. i'd be lying if i said i wasn't a bit worse for wear and worn out. i think i've at least got better perspective on it than last time i left a place, probably not as good as the next time.
that hardly helps in the moment, though.
Saturday, 25 April 2009
dagger, do as I say (sink with my life like a stone)
There's a bit of Swansea beach, near the library and beneath the Tallest Building In Wales (the restaurant is supposed to rotate when its done) that feels positively Californian, with the palm trees and a city-beach that is far sandier than any in Washington State. This is helped by the last few days' near-shorts-appropriate weather. Sometimes I expect Josh and Cliff to tap me on the shoulder and herd me to the car because we're late to meet Taylor at some wedding-related function.
This summer, apparently, there will be some wedding-related functions in the Greater Seattle Area. I've got the Dates Saved, at least on e-mail, but I really only know the girls involved as Ideas-- IE: Dude I'm getting married to____________. This hardly rates a lot of personal investment.
But yeah, palm trees and everything; I think I like them better here. There are, shockingly, (if you've ever walked through town any gven weekend evening) fewer assholes in Swansea. Or maybe I've never watched it get under my friends' skin and peel them down to something else-- doubtless I just haven't lived here long enough.
This summer, apparently, there will be some wedding-related functions in the Greater Seattle Area. I've got the Dates Saved, at least on e-mail, but I really only know the girls involved as Ideas-- IE: Dude I'm getting married to____________. This hardly rates a lot of personal investment.
But yeah, palm trees and everything; I think I like them better here. There are, shockingly, (if you've ever walked through town any gven weekend evening) fewer assholes in Swansea. Or maybe I've never watched it get under my friends' skin and peel them down to something else-- doubtless I just haven't lived here long enough.
Friday, 3 April 2009
Welsh hospitality
Last night was the launch of Miscellaneous at GwDiHw (pron. goody-hoo! with the exclamation points.) in Cardiff. Organised by Gemma j. Howell, who was on the course I trucked to Wales for, but in the year before me. Room was packed out; the place reminded me of Swansea's sadly-now-defunct Siro's but all on one level. The night started with an agile-fingered piano player and ran the gamut from songwriters to poetry to instrumental jams to standup comedy.
Including a guy who started by reading from a copy of "mein kampf"-- the lyrics to "The Lion Sleeps Tonight." Which ruled, as he then "taught" us how to be comdedians in a bad german accent ('zis is vat you call juxshtoposhitional comedy).
I did "zombies and paint thinner" and "tall drink of water" and went over like a brick through a window, in a positive way. That's positive, right? Yeah. Nia did "harbour bell," which I think is becoming a signature. Train ride over we compared notes on poems, what Gets Published by the Magazines That Have Rejected Us.
I think I'll try Poetry Wales again-- apparently that's what handwritten rejection letters mean.
Al, Jo and Margot came and Doprav was in full effect, holding up the poetry end of the first section with his food-as-sex-as-food piece. Met a few 'diff poets who may now be coming down to the Crunch. Excellent.
afters it all I crashed with a young man named Tudor (originally from Aberystwyth via Kuwait) and stayed up late talking national identities, world history and film with his roommate Neil. Tudor made a fish pie (Neil made the required joke) and eventually, as we all sat in the living room smoking spliffs (them enthusiastically, myself polite/clumsily) T decided it was time he Played Some Songs on the Cello.
I passed out around 4, woke up around 8 and after a bit of getting lost, found the train station and rolled back to Swansea. Before requisite showers and day-offness, I'll probably do some letter-writing, or at least think about it.
And. . .
www.nataliedee.com
Including a guy who started by reading from a copy of "mein kampf"-- the lyrics to "The Lion Sleeps Tonight." Which ruled, as he then "taught" us how to be comdedians in a bad german accent ('zis is vat you call juxshtoposhitional comedy).
I did "zombies and paint thinner" and "tall drink of water" and went over like a brick through a window, in a positive way. That's positive, right? Yeah. Nia did "harbour bell," which I think is becoming a signature. Train ride over we compared notes on poems, what Gets Published by the Magazines That Have Rejected Us.
I think I'll try Poetry Wales again-- apparently that's what handwritten rejection letters mean.
Al, Jo and Margot came and Doprav was in full effect, holding up the poetry end of the first section with his food-as-sex-as-food piece. Met a few 'diff poets who may now be coming down to the Crunch. Excellent.
afters it all I crashed with a young man named Tudor (originally from Aberystwyth via Kuwait) and stayed up late talking national identities, world history and film with his roommate Neil. Tudor made a fish pie (Neil made the required joke) and eventually, as we all sat in the living room smoking spliffs (them enthusiastically, myself polite/clumsily) T decided it was time he Played Some Songs on the Cello.
I passed out around 4, woke up around 8 and after a bit of getting lost, found the train station and rolled back to Swansea. Before requisite showers and day-offness, I'll probably do some letter-writing, or at least think about it.
And. . .
www.nataliedee.com
Monday, 16 March 2009
"I can sell you two cans of Hatred, but you can't open them in here."
The Facebook Site for the pub I work at is called "Rhyddings Hotel, Centre of the Universe." Cough. Cough. Cough. I didn't make it. This probably means, however, that I'm entitled to talk about what happens there as it effects everything to occur anywhere, ever.
so here we go: Superhappy Workfun #1.
There's too much longwinded backstory that isn't interesting to get this one across, but I'll try. There's two of the regulars who come by. One is Huwie, who is nicknamed "the horrible cunt" and then there's Ceri, who's a good few decades younger than Huwie, but is his boss. On and off. It's a complex relationship; Ceri often comes in and asks. . . So. . . any horrible cunts around?
No, no sign of odiousness.
Good good. So it hasn't been that loathesome in here today?
Not that I've seen.
It's good banter. Actually, probably 60% of the truly quality banter from the dailies comes from Ceri-- "I'll take a few pints of self-loathing with a chaser of despair and-- oh wait, you don't SELL dignity here, do you?
So it was pretty la-a-ame when Ceri was in a few weeks ago with a good group of mates I'd not seen before and they proceeded to give me and Simon a good bit of shit.
( Parentheticals you probably figure but I'll say anyway--Now-- Taking Shit is part of a bartender's job. Not enough bubbles in your pint? Here, let me pour your pint into a new glass and top it up, wasting what ends up being nearly half a pint of beer just so that your Fosters is foamy enough. Too MUCH head on your beer? Let's just top that up for you. Yes, it sure IS a shame this isn't a "Real Pub." I'll serve you so much faster when you snap your fingers. Etc.--)
But there's Taking Shit and there's some shit-- when one of Ceri's mates' pint was flat after about three new glasses, well, that's not my fault, is it? Plus by now we've put almost a pint and a half in the waste tray just trying to conjure up some bubbles. So then every time I walk past he complains, cusses at me or remarks that he paid £2.60 for this pint and blah blah blah (he actually paid £2.45.)
This isn't what got Ceri banned. Ceri was just sitting there laughing. Would I have liked it if one of my regulars who I'm always quick to serve actually said something-- anything-- to the effect of "come on, guys, I drink here every day, lay off." Yes.
But I wasn't expecting it.
However, when the lot of them started sending texts to the pub phone aimed at Simon saying things like Next time make sure my pint has bubbles in it, you hairy cunt and similarly hilarious bits (revolving around the C-word. I'll miss it's ubiquity when I go home.) that Simon refuses to serve them. I go along with it, because seriously, fuck those guys.
Meanwhile, the "horrible cunt" is sitting at his stool, shaking his head and politely waiting to be served. Ironies.
So if there's one thing I can say for Tony and Angie, it's that they back up their employees. None of this "customer is always right" rot. Tony tells me that he doesn't want those guys in here any more and if Ceri wants to keep drinking here he needs to issue an apology. Now I don't want the guy banned-- I just want his charming friends to leave me alone. However, Saturday night he comes in and gets into a proper Row with Angie and now he's 86ed. Meanwhile, "horrible cunt" now works for us as a cleaner.
Superfunhappytimes #2
Jane has worked at the pub for quite a while now. She's been in and out of the bartrade for a good long time and the customers like her. She is not, however, good at managing her drinking habits in such a way to line up with her schedule. Even by the Rhyddings standards. Which run along these lines-- "If I can go out and get absolutely shitfaced every night and still show up here and do my job for eight hours, you damn well can too."--Kim.
We don't care about hangovers, blurry eyes or cranky tempers. We do care (or I do) when we get texts at 6:30am asking for coverage of the 11am shift. Hypothetically. Which I did because 1) I'm a sucker and 2) I'm good hearted and 3) I'm broke and 4) all of the above.
So working an unexpected 11-5 on a rugby day was fine; but when Simon shows up and asks if I want to cover him because "he's got to do some shit" well. . . alright. Half your shift. Til 9pm. For an even 10 hours.
But when Simon doesn't show to cover the last half of his shift, well, I'm already on a pint of bitter and sure as hell no one ELSE is picking up the slack. So Angie tells Kim to text Simon "If you're not here in 15 minutes don't bother coming back."
Needless to say, he doesn't show. I'm sure he'll have a story. On one hand I feel bad for the guy -- 22 years old, two kids and what sounds like the banshee from hell to contend with, personally. When he didn't show up for a week and returned, teary-eyed and apologetic, Angie let him back.
On the other hand, I believe Nicola put it best when she said: "Well, it serves the stupid twat fucking right for not showing up. Asshole."
Because at the end of the day, yeah man. We've all Got Problems. But we show up.
so here we go: Superhappy Workfun #1.
There's too much longwinded backstory that isn't interesting to get this one across, but I'll try. There's two of the regulars who come by. One is Huwie, who is nicknamed "the horrible cunt" and then there's Ceri, who's a good few decades younger than Huwie, but is his boss. On and off. It's a complex relationship; Ceri often comes in and asks. . . So. . . any horrible cunts around?
No, no sign of odiousness.
Good good. So it hasn't been that loathesome in here today?
Not that I've seen.
It's good banter. Actually, probably 60% of the truly quality banter from the dailies comes from Ceri-- "I'll take a few pints of self-loathing with a chaser of despair and-- oh wait, you don't SELL dignity here, do you?
So it was pretty la-a-ame when Ceri was in a few weeks ago with a good group of mates I'd not seen before and they proceeded to give me and Simon a good bit of shit.
( Parentheticals you probably figure but I'll say anyway--Now-- Taking Shit is part of a bartender's job. Not enough bubbles in your pint? Here, let me pour your pint into a new glass and top it up, wasting what ends up being nearly half a pint of beer just so that your Fosters is foamy enough. Too MUCH head on your beer? Let's just top that up for you. Yes, it sure IS a shame this isn't a "Real Pub." I'll serve you so much faster when you snap your fingers. Etc.--)
But there's Taking Shit and there's some shit-- when one of Ceri's mates' pint was flat after about three new glasses, well, that's not my fault, is it? Plus by now we've put almost a pint and a half in the waste tray just trying to conjure up some bubbles. So then every time I walk past he complains, cusses at me or remarks that he paid £2.60 for this pint and blah blah blah (he actually paid £2.45.)
This isn't what got Ceri banned. Ceri was just sitting there laughing. Would I have liked it if one of my regulars who I'm always quick to serve actually said something-- anything-- to the effect of "come on, guys, I drink here every day, lay off." Yes.
But I wasn't expecting it.
However, when the lot of them started sending texts to the pub phone aimed at Simon saying things like Next time make sure my pint has bubbles in it, you hairy cunt and similarly hilarious bits (revolving around the C-word. I'll miss it's ubiquity when I go home.) that Simon refuses to serve them. I go along with it, because seriously, fuck those guys.
Meanwhile, the "horrible cunt" is sitting at his stool, shaking his head and politely waiting to be served. Ironies.
So if there's one thing I can say for Tony and Angie, it's that they back up their employees. None of this "customer is always right" rot. Tony tells me that he doesn't want those guys in here any more and if Ceri wants to keep drinking here he needs to issue an apology. Now I don't want the guy banned-- I just want his charming friends to leave me alone. However, Saturday night he comes in and gets into a proper Row with Angie and now he's 86ed. Meanwhile, "horrible cunt" now works for us as a cleaner.
Superfunhappytimes #2
Jane has worked at the pub for quite a while now. She's been in and out of the bartrade for a good long time and the customers like her. She is not, however, good at managing her drinking habits in such a way to line up with her schedule. Even by the Rhyddings standards. Which run along these lines-- "If I can go out and get absolutely shitfaced every night and still show up here and do my job for eight hours, you damn well can too."--Kim.
We don't care about hangovers, blurry eyes or cranky tempers. We do care (or I do) when we get texts at 6:30am asking for coverage of the 11am shift. Hypothetically. Which I did because 1) I'm a sucker and 2) I'm good hearted and 3) I'm broke and 4) all of the above.
So working an unexpected 11-5 on a rugby day was fine; but when Simon shows up and asks if I want to cover him because "he's got to do some shit" well. . . alright. Half your shift. Til 9pm. For an even 10 hours.
But when Simon doesn't show to cover the last half of his shift, well, I'm already on a pint of bitter and sure as hell no one ELSE is picking up the slack. So Angie tells Kim to text Simon "If you're not here in 15 minutes don't bother coming back."
Needless to say, he doesn't show. I'm sure he'll have a story. On one hand I feel bad for the guy -- 22 years old, two kids and what sounds like the banshee from hell to contend with, personally. When he didn't show up for a week and returned, teary-eyed and apologetic, Angie let him back.
On the other hand, I believe Nicola put it best when she said: "Well, it serves the stupid twat fucking right for not showing up. Asshole."
Because at the end of the day, yeah man. We've all Got Problems. But we show up.
Monday, 13 October 2008
I wish that I believed in fate, I wish I didn't sleep so late
So, its done. The whole thing, all 20,500 words plus essay, handed in to the secretary who raised her eyebrow when I had put the non-plagarism declaration on the wrong side of the title page. well, there you go. still got in.
much thanks to Howard (too fried to re-figure out link posting-- just go to www.johnheronproject.com already) for reading through my stories and making sure they weren't horrible messes of grammatical fuckup and narrative goop.
this means that while I'll still post poems here, it won't be as regular, probably. Or maybe more regular. But the Summer Writing Project is over and this will go back to being a bit more of a blog that people can read. I'll keep the livejournal (as I have) because there's many people that read it that I'd rather only deal with on there.
I was going to post a reflective on my Year In Swansea.
I decided not to. At least not right right right now. Instead, i'm posting an old poem I wrote, shortly before leaving Seattle. I expected to re-read it and not identify or think "oh, MAN things have changed" but maybe I'm not as different as I feel. Or maybe it was a moment of clarity. Anyways, it'll probably get posted elsewhere too, so don't get annoyed if you end up reading it more than once.
because it's really fucking long. It will get trimmed someday, but hasn't been touched since I got on the plane.
here you go.
I still owe gas money 9/13/07
Riding shotgun through highway nine past the chip-and-sweat
smelling garage I practically lived in the summer before I
cut my hair and all that meant,
I wonder if next time really will be the last time
we disagree on movies based on comics, if quoting you
back to you will still be funny in 17 years and a few more
pounds or if all the licorice has already gone
to our teeth
or if I’m all idle threats
and you’re all big-voiced drama
threatening a collapse when ten years later
will simply find us in a more spacious garage
cleaner clothes, better reasons for short hair
as highway nine’s forests are replaced with
gas stations, spacious estates and finally, condos
northgate way has long since been deforested
and ceased substantive change;
it wont always be northgate way
someday, it will be iced over or renamed by
a conquering nation with virus-shooting guns
but as is, in the car with my sister, past miles
of couches I’ve been sleeping on, I can’t help
but want nine years back, and a shower
--shower first
* * * *
stacking poems into “keep”
and “toss” piles in a rapidly emptying room
is a lot like picking the lint and pennies
off the carpet in preparation for vacuuming
is a lot like cleaning up your nostalgia,
filing it in boxes in storage spaces, bringing it
out again, primping for public consumption
sanding it down for maximum curves, photographing
with black and white film for the sort of
detatched, timeless
quality, is a lot like hanging those pictures up
sardonically captioned so everyone will know
you haven’t lost your edge.
my “toss” pile is immense.
* * * *
riding shotgun down I-5 has become customary
explaining the specific dynamics of today’s tired
--the long wear of a month of goodbyes, the universal
sigh of explaining the same things to everyone you meet,
the internal sturm and drang of making memories
for the sake of it—
versus yesterdays’ tired—too little sleep and
too much to do
is enough to keep me in conversation for a car ride
so much depends on the five dollar bills I
finger every time we pull up to a gas pump
whether it’s accepted or not
we are making the highways into lengths of rope
we can pull towards ourselves and bring the people with it
but you can’t drive across the atlantic.
we are making a point of having fun, of doing things we’ve
meant to, of it being normal, after all nothing’s going to change.
there’s echoes, though, of the joke
“this is probably the last time
you, me, lailey and ryan will walk down this street
holding books in our hands
on a Sunday.”
* * * *
my grandmother is downstairs on the couch
watching Dr. Phil, waiting for the painkillers to kick in
at 5:45, my father is taking her down the hill into town
for a haircut
in the mail today I received papers with information
regarding tuition, campus life, courses. the same that
they send everyone. there’s a separate, smaller paper
with tips for adjusting for overseas students
they assume I don’t speak english. probably safe.
I’m trying to decide if a thick glass of orange juice
will hold me until dinner, which percentage of
camera after disposable camera worth of pictures
I will want a couple thousand miles from here
There’s not room for the whole box, but I’ve
already thrown so much away, forced my nostalgia
back down my throat and tossed in the fire
that these decisions are inventing a new typeof tired
one only knows these things once they’ve seen
the wall they’ll be covering.
Before there, though, there are passenger seats
with people I want to see and people I don’t want to
see and the distinctions between the two are
blurring into the last month’s worth of slow bleed out
but bad shocks and jolting tires bring me back
for the handful of nights left, my eyes on the road
and the dripping down of questions I don’t have answers to
I am not leaving town; I am draining out of it
“Is there anything you want to do in Seattle before you go?”
much thanks to Howard (too fried to re-figure out link posting-- just go to www.johnheronproject.com already) for reading through my stories and making sure they weren't horrible messes of grammatical fuckup and narrative goop.
this means that while I'll still post poems here, it won't be as regular, probably. Or maybe more regular. But the Summer Writing Project is over and this will go back to being a bit more of a blog that people can read. I'll keep the livejournal (as I have) because there's many people that read it that I'd rather only deal with on there.
I was going to post a reflective on my Year In Swansea.
I decided not to. At least not right right right now. Instead, i'm posting an old poem I wrote, shortly before leaving Seattle. I expected to re-read it and not identify or think "oh, MAN things have changed" but maybe I'm not as different as I feel. Or maybe it was a moment of clarity. Anyways, it'll probably get posted elsewhere too, so don't get annoyed if you end up reading it more than once.
because it's really fucking long. It will get trimmed someday, but hasn't been touched since I got on the plane.
here you go.
I still owe gas money 9/13/07
Riding shotgun through highway nine past the chip-and-sweat
smelling garage I practically lived in the summer before I
cut my hair and all that meant,
I wonder if next time really will be the last time
we disagree on movies based on comics, if quoting you
back to you will still be funny in 17 years and a few more
pounds or if all the licorice has already gone
to our teeth
or if I’m all idle threats
and you’re all big-voiced drama
threatening a collapse when ten years later
will simply find us in a more spacious garage
cleaner clothes, better reasons for short hair
as highway nine’s forests are replaced with
gas stations, spacious estates and finally, condos
northgate way has long since been deforested
and ceased substantive change;
it wont always be northgate way
someday, it will be iced over or renamed by
a conquering nation with virus-shooting guns
but as is, in the car with my sister, past miles
of couches I’ve been sleeping on, I can’t help
but want nine years back, and a shower
--shower first
* * * *
stacking poems into “keep”
and “toss” piles in a rapidly emptying room
is a lot like picking the lint and pennies
off the carpet in preparation for vacuuming
is a lot like cleaning up your nostalgia,
filing it in boxes in storage spaces, bringing it
out again, primping for public consumption
sanding it down for maximum curves, photographing
with black and white film for the sort of
detatched, timeless
quality, is a lot like hanging those pictures up
sardonically captioned so everyone will know
you haven’t lost your edge.
my “toss” pile is immense.
* * * *
riding shotgun down I-5 has become customary
explaining the specific dynamics of today’s tired
--the long wear of a month of goodbyes, the universal
sigh of explaining the same things to everyone you meet,
the internal sturm and drang of making memories
for the sake of it—
versus yesterdays’ tired—too little sleep and
too much to do
is enough to keep me in conversation for a car ride
so much depends on the five dollar bills I
finger every time we pull up to a gas pump
whether it’s accepted or not
we are making the highways into lengths of rope
we can pull towards ourselves and bring the people with it
but you can’t drive across the atlantic.
we are making a point of having fun, of doing things we’ve
meant to, of it being normal, after all nothing’s going to change.
there’s echoes, though, of the joke
“this is probably the last time
you, me, lailey and ryan will walk down this street
holding books in our hands
on a Sunday.”
* * * *
my grandmother is downstairs on the couch
watching Dr. Phil, waiting for the painkillers to kick in
at 5:45, my father is taking her down the hill into town
for a haircut
in the mail today I received papers with information
regarding tuition, campus life, courses. the same that
they send everyone. there’s a separate, smaller paper
with tips for adjusting for overseas students
they assume I don’t speak english. probably safe.
I’m trying to decide if a thick glass of orange juice
will hold me until dinner, which percentage of
camera after disposable camera worth of pictures
I will want a couple thousand miles from here
There’s not room for the whole box, but I’ve
already thrown so much away, forced my nostalgia
back down my throat and tossed in the fire
that these decisions are inventing a new typeof tired
one only knows these things once they’ve seen
the wall they’ll be covering.
Before there, though, there are passenger seats
with people I want to see and people I don’t want to
see and the distinctions between the two are
blurring into the last month’s worth of slow bleed out
but bad shocks and jolting tires bring me back
for the handful of nights left, my eyes on the road
and the dripping down of questions I don’t have answers to
I am not leaving town; I am draining out of it
“Is there anything you want to do in Seattle before you go?”
Monday, 15 September 2008
Its What We Writers Do
For Jen, on her return to the United States
I suspect I will spend
life watching my favourite people
get on planes
then writing about it.
We all have our themes.
It’s what we writers do.
When you go, you take a piece of Swansea with you.
Ridiculous?
Sure. You aren’t from here either.
But I see people as signifiers, metaphors;
chapters in a book I’ll write later.
Who else will remember the drunk old man
in the corner of Uplands Tav shouting about how
we were too young to know anything
and the volumes of eachothers poetry we
sliced up and re-sected ‘til they were done?
This won’t become a list of inside jokes
because that would be too easy, my
crooked grin at the look on your face as you
tell me I’m busted.
When you go I will write something;
its what we writers do.
And, after all,
there are airplanes involved
and I’ve gotta stick to my
themes.
When you go,
I’ll buy you a drink you don’t want,
Make a few jokes too many,
They’ll be pretty tasteless
And you’ll tell me
I’m busted.
I suspect I will spend
life watching my favourite people
get on planes
then writing about it.
We all have our themes.
It’s what we writers do.
When you go, you take a piece of Swansea with you.
Ridiculous?
Sure. You aren’t from here either.
But I see people as signifiers, metaphors;
chapters in a book I’ll write later.
Who else will remember the drunk old man
in the corner of Uplands Tav shouting about how
we were too young to know anything
and the volumes of eachothers poetry we
sliced up and re-sected ‘til they were done?
This won’t become a list of inside jokes
because that would be too easy, my
crooked grin at the look on your face as you
tell me I’m busted.
When you go I will write something;
its what we writers do.
And, after all,
there are airplanes involved
and I’ve gotta stick to my
themes.
When you go,
I’ll buy you a drink you don’t want,
Make a few jokes too many,
They’ll be pretty tasteless
And you’ll tell me
I’m busted.
Saturday, 13 September 2008
boots and jacket (i.m. Jimmy Henry)
Brown-red floors and piles of clothes
to either side, the 1990 Michael Bolton X-large T-shirt
framed.
Not for sale.
Beside the velvet embroidered Elvis and Jesus tapestries
The racks of jackets and button downs and ties and
Forties-era suit-coats he kept trying to get 19 year olds
To buy
“yeah, you don’t want anyofthisnewfangled hipster
Bullshit Madison avenue crap getsomethinwithclasss”
After he left town—some said England
Some San Francisco, some New York
And some said he never really left at all
just found an alley doorway and never came out-
The space was turned to a hiking and recreation
Supply store with tasteful cartoons of mountains
On its rounded side.
One time while I was looking for old t-shirts
Or something or other, Jimmy looked around quick
And said “yeah, you’reagoodboy. Watch the store while
I go get a sandwich.”
That day I found a pair of boots for twelve dollars
A couple of cowboy shirts and a dusty green jacket.
Best damn shirt, boots and jacket I ever bought.
to either side, the 1990 Michael Bolton X-large T-shirt
framed.
Not for sale.
Beside the velvet embroidered Elvis and Jesus tapestries
The racks of jackets and button downs and ties and
Forties-era suit-coats he kept trying to get 19 year olds
To buy
“yeah, you don’t want anyofthisnewfangled hipster
Bullshit Madison avenue crap getsomethinwithclasss”
After he left town—some said England
Some San Francisco, some New York
And some said he never really left at all
just found an alley doorway and never came out-
The space was turned to a hiking and recreation
Supply store with tasteful cartoons of mountains
On its rounded side.
One time while I was looking for old t-shirts
Or something or other, Jimmy looked around quick
And said “yeah, you’reagoodboy. Watch the store while
I go get a sandwich.”
That day I found a pair of boots for twelve dollars
A couple of cowboy shirts and a dusty green jacket.
Best damn shirt, boots and jacket I ever bought.
Monday, 21 April 2008
A brief briefing of faces you should know, or at least can now picture when I reference in future blogs
Whereas I just got back from a bit of a stroll/write/stroll, the internet fails to live up to it's mighty promise and I don't quite feel like uploading pics from Easter, here's a few pictures of my life here in Swansea and the people it contains. You know. For reference.
This is myself and Adell Bridges, shooting tequila at three p.m. in the Uplands Tavern. Adell being a girl from my course, originally from the south U.S. but now quite living in the U.K. Moved from Scotch boys to Welsh boys. Writes a mean Terza Rhima.
Jen Johnson (terrible, by my own admission, picture of her) and Dave Jones. Jen (along with Courtney, not pictured here) went to St. Andrews in North Carolina. Dave is Welsh but sounds English.
Myself and Dave Beer at the train station in Cardiff, coming back from the Ida Maria show. DB is too many differing individual quotes to phrase up in one caption, so I won't try.
Jess and John. Often referred to as "punk John" or "the punk." They are quite engaged and, as you may guess, very cute. Jess is on my course as well, John is doing a PHD in a very specialised history I forget at the moment. We're going to see Nick Cave in May. They often host movie nights in their upstairs bedroom, beer, the odd joint and various types of cookies floating around the room.
This is Ioan. One of the funniest human beings I have ever met. Also very Welsh in probably all the best ways. Also tends to be a good listener on the odd occasion when I've had it up. to. fucking. here. with some of my friends (coughcoughcougcourtneycoughcougcough) and just involuntarily explode a little bit. Can usually be found at a pub, drinking really good beer. Also too many quotes for just one.
and finally:
Myself and Roy "the handsome one" Williams. In Cardiff at the Ida Maria show. He's a great bloke, Swansea native, Replacements fan and ladies. . . he's single.
This is myself and Adell Bridges, shooting tequila at three p.m. in the Uplands Tavern. Adell being a girl from my course, originally from the south U.S. but now quite living in the U.K. Moved from Scotch boys to Welsh boys. Writes a mean Terza Rhima.
Jen Johnson (terrible, by my own admission, picture of her) and Dave Jones. Jen (along with Courtney, not pictured here) went to St. Andrews in North Carolina. Dave is Welsh but sounds English.
Myself and Dave Beer at the train station in Cardiff, coming back from the Ida Maria show. DB is too many differing individual quotes to phrase up in one caption, so I won't try.
Jess and John. Often referred to as "punk John" or "the punk." They are quite engaged and, as you may guess, very cute. Jess is on my course as well, John is doing a PHD in a very specialised history I forget at the moment. We're going to see Nick Cave in May. They often host movie nights in their upstairs bedroom, beer, the odd joint and various types of cookies floating around the room.
This is Ioan. One of the funniest human beings I have ever met. Also very Welsh in probably all the best ways. Also tends to be a good listener on the odd occasion when I've had it up. to. fucking. here. with some of my friends (coughcoughcougcourtneycoughcougcough) and just involuntarily explode a little bit. Can usually be found at a pub, drinking really good beer. Also too many quotes for just one.
and finally:
Myself and Roy "the handsome one" Williams. In Cardiff at the Ida Maria show. He's a great bloke, Swansea native, Replacements fan and ladies. . . he's single.
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