Fucking Apathy
"If I could dig a hole and hide from everyone, I'd do it."
"Do as elephants do--when they're unhappy, they disappear."
(Faites comme les éléphants -- quand ils sont malheureux, ils disparaissent.)
A Bout De Souffle
Jean-Luc Godard
First let me say that it's 12:22 am and that I've taken a pause from watching a brilliant Jean-Luc Godard movie (À bout de souffle) that I wasn't aware existed on this planet (brilliant cuz I ditn't know, and too, because I grabbed it as a 7-day rental--5 movies for 6 bucks--and thought "French New Wave? Cool"... It's such fun to quote one's own thought on one's own blog.). I'm sure everyone else on the planet, on my planet, knows this Frenchie director guy. Anyways, my pause:
I returned about an hour or two ago from the Coach House spring launch held right here in ole Montreal. As usual, I'm disappointed by the lack of conversation among poets about poetry. True, could be my pissy mood considering I've lots of papers and exams to complete, coupled with the fact that the entire world seems bordering (bordering?) on irreversable apathy right now. I dunno. Call me poet. I'm tired. Or maybe I'm a replicant. Okay, but why is it that poets never say to each other exactly what it is their faces are telling you what they're thinking of saying.
But I took some photos. From a distance. I prefer the expanse of space between words leaving mouths and reaching me. I need time to consider. I should have been even farther back, in fact. Sina's reading made me poke a stranger next to me to ask for a cigarette. Good God it was good. The reading. And the cigarette. But really, Sina Queyras is phenomenal. Was it the striking pinstripe suit? Maybe. I will have to contact her at some point; ask for some things to be sent in exchange for some useless Canadian money. If I'd been in a better mood I'd have stayed to chat about, say, why lemon and why hound, although I have my inklings--I once wrote a poem about lemon and things which I won't get into... Bowery, good?... gay is cool no more?... and of course, the exhorborant amount NY'ers spend for vintage. Interesting. I buy mine cheap, or not at all. I've been forced to sew a dress or two in the past. I'm not beyond that. My mother educated me on how to pull (push?) sharp objects through porous material.
Christ Ewart, reading from Miss Lamp
Angela Rawlings, reading from Wide slumber for lepidopterists
Jon Paul Fiorentino, reading from Theory of the Loser Class
Sina Queyras , reading from Lemon Hound
Melissa A. Thompson, reading from Dreadful Paris
And hey, have you all gotten a copy of the spring Carousel Magazine with my long poem in it? Cuz you should. I don't publish that often you know. (unless you've seen the latest fhole from Toronto, with a 4-piecer of mine in it) Just get one. Buy poetry. It will love you more than your cat. Maybe longer. Buy it here.
My hair smells like smoke.
And now, to sleep. Essay completion to do on the fabulous Daphne Marlatt in the morning, & comparison with some Livesay material. Tomorrow, tomorrow.
"Do as elephants do--when they're unhappy, they disappear."
(Faites comme les éléphants -- quand ils sont malheureux, ils disparaissent.)
A Bout De Souffle
Jean-Luc Godard
First let me say that it's 12:22 am and that I've taken a pause from watching a brilliant Jean-Luc Godard movie (À bout de souffle) that I wasn't aware existed on this planet (brilliant cuz I ditn't know, and too, because I grabbed it as a 7-day rental--5 movies for 6 bucks--and thought "French New Wave? Cool"... It's such fun to quote one's own thought on one's own blog.). I'm sure everyone else on the planet, on my planet, knows this Frenchie director guy. Anyways, my pause:
I returned about an hour or two ago from the Coach House spring launch held right here in ole Montreal. As usual, I'm disappointed by the lack of conversation among poets about poetry. True, could be my pissy mood considering I've lots of papers and exams to complete, coupled with the fact that the entire world seems bordering (bordering?) on irreversable apathy right now. I dunno. Call me poet. I'm tired. Or maybe I'm a replicant. Okay, but why is it that poets never say to each other exactly what it is their faces are telling you what they're thinking of saying.
But I took some photos. From a distance. I prefer the expanse of space between words leaving mouths and reaching me. I need time to consider. I should have been even farther back, in fact. Sina's reading made me poke a stranger next to me to ask for a cigarette. Good God it was good. The reading. And the cigarette. But really, Sina Queyras is phenomenal. Was it the striking pinstripe suit? Maybe. I will have to contact her at some point; ask for some things to be sent in exchange for some useless Canadian money. If I'd been in a better mood I'd have stayed to chat about, say, why lemon and why hound, although I have my inklings--I once wrote a poem about lemon and things which I won't get into... Bowery, good?... gay is cool no more?... and of course, the exhorborant amount NY'ers spend for vintage. Interesting. I buy mine cheap, or not at all. I've been forced to sew a dress or two in the past. I'm not beyond that. My mother educated me on how to pull (push?) sharp objects through porous material.
Christ Ewart, reading from Miss Lamp
Angela Rawlings, reading from Wide slumber for lepidopterists
Jon Paul Fiorentino, reading from Theory of the Loser Class
Sina Queyras , reading from Lemon Hound
Melissa A. Thompson, reading from Dreadful Paris
And hey, have you all gotten a copy of the spring Carousel Magazine with my long poem in it? Cuz you should. I don't publish that often you know. (unless you've seen the latest fhole from Toronto, with a 4-piecer of mine in it) Just get one. Buy poetry. It will love you more than your cat. Maybe longer. Buy it here.
My hair smells like smoke.
And now, to sleep. Essay completion to do on the fabulous Daphne Marlatt in the morning, & comparison with some Livesay material. Tomorrow, tomorrow.
posted by MissWanda at 12:20 a.m.
1 Comments:
Hi there, Wanda!
To answer the question you posted on my blog (since I don't ever respond to commenters there), yes, there is a lot of evidence still in New Denver, and in nearby Silverton, of the Japanese-interment era. In fact, New Denver has a pretty extensive display of internment cabins and artifacts down by Slocan Lake. Both times I've been there, it's been closed, but I peer through the fence and see all that I can see.
Everyone there is very aware of that region's history.
Incidentally, a fabulous poet who I think you'd really enjoy lives part-time in New Denver: Diana Hartog. She has a new book out from Brick, but I just read her first-ever book, Matinee Light, published in 1982 by Coach House Press.
Lovin' your blog.
Stu
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