Khalisi, the queen of the barbarians, joins her husband on the funeral pyre. Before walking in she says to her devotees: "I am the daughter of the dragon. If anyone harms you, they will die screaming." The witch who betrayed her is tied to the pyre too. She says: "I won't scream." Khalisi: "Yes you will. But I don't want your screams, just your life." When the branches have been burned and all the agonizing screams have been screamed Khalisi is still kneeling there, unharmed, naked except for some ashes where her clothes have burned off. The dragon eggs thrown into the fire with her have hatched. A baby dragon sits on each shoulder. In the book, one is nursing at her breast.
-- Jerome Sala
If you're around NYC and free, hope to see you there. For more info on the reading and DIA, click here.
I'm reading to close Tamara Gonzales' incredible show at: Norte Maar, 4PM Sunday, April 29th. She's included 4 of my poems in her project. Thanks Tamara!
Norte Maar 83 Wyckoff Avenue #1B, Brooklyn, NY 11237 646-361-8512.
Ever since I watched a documentary on Encore about the career of Jerry Lewis -- Method to the Madness -- I haven't been able to get one of the comedian's iconic bits out of my mind.
Lewis pretends to be typing (on an invisible typewriter) to the sounds of classical music. He performs a sort of hand ballet, looking a bit like a conductor at times. As the bit goes on, he gets goofier as he becomes exhausted by his efforts:
One of the things that fascinates me about this gag is how it mixes the codes of high art with everyday life to such a delightful effect; it's part an elegant display of nimble dexterity -- and part slapstick.
In fact, this little concerto brought to mind a comment the pragmatist philosopher John Dewey made in his classic book on aesthetics, Art as Experience. Dewey cautions against drawing too fine a line between the creative arts and everyday life. As he puts it:
"The intelligent mechanic, engaged in his job, interested in doing well and finding satisfaction in his handiwork, caring for his tools and materials with genuine affection, is artistically engaged."
Is not part of the humor of Lewis' skit found in the degree of "genuine affection" his typist exhibits for what we conventionally think of as a mundane task?
If Life Can Become Art, So Art Can Become Life
Another reason the Lewis routine grabbed hold of my thoughts is that it exhibits an impulse that I've seen mirrored in interesting ways by the world of high art. If Lewis suggests that there's something about everyday life that's artistic, the history of the avant-garde is replete with examples of poets and visual artists who have sought to make artistic culture part of everyday life.
Lautreamont, the prose poet and predecessor of Surrealism, insisted, for example, that "Poetry must be made by all..." Among the ways this idea found expression in the art movements of the 20th century was in the recipes for cooking up poems that Dadaist and Surrealist poets offered to make it theoretically possible for "anyone to be a poet."
Tristan Tzara's famous instruction for making a Dada poem, for example, was to cut out words from a newspaper, shake them up in a paper bag, splash them onto a table, and record the results.
"Put yourself in as passive, or receptive, a state of mind as you can. Forget about your genius, your talents, and the talents of everyone else...Write quickly, without any preconceived subject, fast enough so that you will not remember what you're writing and be tempted to re-read what you've written."
Following this method religiously, Breton states later, should enable you to write entire books on subjects you know nothing about.
Perhaps you could even say that some aspects of the Slam Poetry movement pursued dissolving art into everyday life -- and vice versa. For in that format, as I remember, not only anyone can get up, "be a poet", and compete -- but all can be judges/critics who canonize the list of winners for the night.
In any case, it's no surprise that I associate Lewis' bit with certain modes of avant-garde art. Both offer examples of how conventional thinking and experience can be transformed in pleasurable and even liberating ways.
Of course, once such techniques have been around in the culture awhile, the more traditional aspects of the social order usually move in to mess with them. In our so-called free market society, such experiments are not so much repressed as standardized for money-making purposes.
Tzara's Dada poem is marketed as "Magnetic Poetry." Surrealism becomes a preferred method for drawing charisma to rock videos and ads, and its techniques featured in self-help books to aid in overcoming "writer's block" (and "unleash the voice within"). Slam morphs into movies, TV and Broadway shows and rap records. And "Jerry Lewis" is now a studio, a brand, a corporation -- an entire industry.
But before this process takes place, when low can still be high and vice versa, the joy that comes with the sense of new possiblities can still be felt.
Perhaps part of the appeal of this strain of culture is that it supports the belief that things can still transform in exciting ways. Maybe even that they can change. Thoughts?
Related Interest: More on art dissolving into life in my review of Nick Piombino and Toni Simon's Contradicta, now up at Evergreen Review Online.
There's been so much on the web and TV about the big car ad of the Super Bowl ("Halftime in America"), I thought I'd weigh in about a different one -- a spot that relies more on the bizarre than the authentic to make its point.
I'm thinking about the Chevy spot that invokes both the Mayan and Biblical (it's raining frogs!) apocalypse -- and our dreaded year of 2012. If you haven't seen it yet, check it out:
Of course, this satiric way of claiming that a Chevy lasts longer than a Ford has been accused of exaggeration. As reported by brandchannel, a representative for Ford Trucks lodged this protest:
"They [Chevy] cite R.L. Polk data on longevity -- not durability. If you look at R.L. Polk's data on durability ... there are more Ford trucks on the road with more than 250,000 miles. We've made our point and we'll always defend our products."
You might expect religious folks, at least those who believe in prophecies of the end times, to get upset with this scenario too. For the spot takes an episode of sacred history and uses it cavalierly, for ironic purposes (and, of course, to make a buck).
Though I suppose even fundamentalists -- at least in the West -- are numb to this by now (and probably find it funny themselves), because hey, that's what modernity (not to mention advertising) is all about.
Nevertheless, there is more than a grain of truth in this spot. Chevy, after all, did survive a crash of nearly apocalyptic proportions. What saved the company, though, was not simply the durability of their trucks, but the same thing that saved Chrysler: a little Keynesian economics (in the form of government funds). (Ford refused the bailout offer.)
Also, there's something about the way the main character shrugs off the loss of "Dave" that mirrors the dopey "whatever" attitude of the survivor in all of us -- happy to be one of the lucky ones who made it (as the theme song suggests), but powerless to do much about the daily catastrophe.
What Comes After the End?
But what I think the spot is most accurate in portraying is a contemporary mindset. Astute observers of the apocalyptic imagery running through our pop culture, such as Fredric Jameson and Slavoj Zizek, have remarked about how easy it seems to imagine the end of the world.
What's difficult, perhaps impossible to envision, they argue, is the end of capitalism -- a system responsible, in their eyes, for this continuing sense of dread in the first place.
The spot's closing line captures this idea perfectly: "Chevy Silverado" the (Tim Allen) voice-over intones, "from the beginning of your work day, till the end of the world. Chevy runs deep."
And the images act out this sentiment in a literal fashion: the world around these characters is crumbling, but their trucks keep going and going - like Engergizer bunnies. What survives the end of the world? Products, in this case trucks and twinkies. (Perhaps their preservatives have made them invulnerable?)
But despite the spot's hyper-bullishness about its brand, it nevertheless seems bruised by the times. It's as if the humor is there to help relieve a lurking anxiety.
Because even if a few brands survive the next meltdown, what's the point -- if the rest of the economy is (as in the spot) annihilated? Of course, the commercial's humor assures us this could never happen. But then, you've got to ask yourself, how did the apocalypse end up in a spot to sell a truck in the first place?
Back in 2008 it seemed, at times, the conomic end was near. At the very least a spot like this proves the trauma of the deepest moments of "The Great Recession" hasn't left us just yet.
And that trauma continues to color thoughts about the future. In fact, the jokey quality of the commercial seems flavored by a bit of gallows humor. It even made me think of Robert Creeley's classic poem "I Know a Man":
I Know a Man
As I sd to my friend, because I am always talking, -- John, I
sd, which was not his name, the darkness sur- rounds us, what
can we do against it, or else, shall we & why not, buy a goddamn big car,
drive, he sd, for christ's sake, look out where yr going
The authors of this commercial would, of course, make an addition to this poem. In their version, there would be an extra line; the poem would end by saying:
"and make sure you're driving a Chevy."
Also of Interest:
Click here to see my review of poet Nick Piombino and artist Toni Simon's collaborative book, Contradicta, at Evergreen Review Online:
I noticed during the State of the Union the other week, how frequently the theme of economic nationalism was invoked (bringing jobs back home, rewarding companies who base their manufacturing here, etc.).
And judging from the polls afterwards, it worked -- across the political spectrum. This got me thinking about nationalism in general. If ideas about "the Nation" strike such a chord, how might they affect aesthetics?
Even writers who eschew such identification, embracing a sort of cosmopolitanism, are only able to do so because of the confidence their national culture affords them. In other words, if you're a writer from an older literary cuture, one already respected on the world stage, you don't need to worry about your right to write.
But for nations just emerging, the driving aesthetic often has to do with discovering, refining and battling for a national identity. And making the case that one's own culture can stand, aesthetically at least, toe to toe with the giants.
One might imagine, by extension, that an important step in such aesthetic nationalism would involve fighting off the images cast upon your culture by the more powerful.
These ideas came to life for me as I was rereading a poem by Polish poet Adam Zagajewski. Poland, as a national culture, is certainly in a state of (re)emergence, since it only recently has escaped (yet again) the domination of its aggressive neighbors.
Zagajewski's poem records the aesthetic after-shocks of such a history:
POEMS ON POLAND
I read poems on Poland written by foreign poets. Germans and Russians have not only guns, but also ink, pens, some heart, and a lot of imagination. Poland in their poems reminds me of an audacious unicorn which feeds on the wool of tapestries, it is beautiful, weak and imprudent. I don't know what the mechanism of illusion is based on, but even I, a sober reader, am enraptured by that fairy-tale defenseless land on which feed balck eagles, hungry emperors, the Third Reich, and the Third Rome.
The picture painted of Poland by more powerful nations here reminds me of Donald Lopez's classic book on the cultural history of Tibet, Prisoners of Shangri-La. In it, Lopez examines how that country has been portrayed in books (and skewed translations of Tibetan texts) by Western scholars, New Agers and explorers.
This "mystical kingdom" has been seen as everything from a utopia ("Shangri-La") to a sort of medieval slave state; its people portrayed sometimes as superstitious and even barbaric -- at others, deeply wise (if idealized) magicians. But like Poland, however Tibet is pictured, it generally ends up seeming like a place lost in the past and its own passivity. It's rarely an actor on the modern stage.
The Poetics of U.S. Nation Building
But the nationalist muse doesn't only inspire smaller, less powerful countries. As U.S. literature came into its own, as Casanova points out, it too competed on the stage of international cultural politics.
Throughout the 19th century, U.S. writers, in their own quest for cultural independence, saw themselves in competition with Britain. This nationalist impulse reached a high point in Whitman (who has been hailed as "America's Shakespeare"). As Casanova puts it:
"Walt Whitman's writings contain magnificent pages on the power, novelty and immensity of American verse, while the United States themselves constituted 'the greatest poem' of all."
It's amazing how such poetic nationalism persisted -- especially in view of how dominant the U.S. became by the mid 20th century. As late as the early 60s, for example, poet George Oppen criticized U.S. poets for looking away from their home soil -- and toward "the exotic arms of Zen" -- for inspiration. Oppen remarked that for his generation, developing a more homegrown poetics (Williams being the ground breaker here) was considered the radical position to take.
Why? "We grew up on English writing..." he wrote, and "the more open society [of the U.S.] made possible the literary career of the obviously non aristocratic spokesman who, once he tired of Invocation to Someone Else's Muse, had to make his own poetry."
Nevertheless, I'm not sure how appealing such ideas are for U.S. poetry anymore. A few years back, I remember attending literary events attempting to answer the question of "What's American about American Poetry" (as if few knew anymore).
But I wonder, if the national economic ideology shifts away from the globalism of the last 25 years or so, how might this affect poetry, or our aesthetics in general. Thoughts?
News flash. I'll be reading with Elaine Equi in Chicago, for the first time in over 20 years! If you live in town, would love to see you there. Here's the info:
Columbia College Elaine Equi & Jerome Sala Wednesday, October 26, 5:30p.m. Hokin Hall, 623 S. Wabash, Room 109
Recently I came across a poem by Emily Dickinson that speaks of confinement:
I never hear the word "escape" Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude!
I never hear of prisons broad By soldiers battered down, But I tug childish at my bars Only to fail again! (1859)
Such lines support the most common image we have of Dickinson -- as a secluded poet, who experienced moments of only private joy.
But it's fascinating also to think of this poem as having to do with her lack of audience and publication -- as if what can't escape the confinement of her room are her poems themselves.
Dickinson published less than a dozen of her nearly 1800 poems. Of these, many were horribly rewritten by editors, to rid the work of its disruptive rhythms and dissonant slant rhymes -- precisely those qualities that make her the Thelonious Monk of poetry.
Judging from the dates of the poems in my book, this is one of Dickinson's earlier ones. What's striking is that even here, there's ultimately little hope of "escape"; her attempts at freedom are "childish" she says. But, one might ask, if her work seemed doomed to confinement from the start, what drove her to write so much?
A hint, I think, might be found in the repetitive quality ("only to fail again") to which this poem alludes. This brings to my mind a distinction made by the cultural critic Slavoj Zizek between "desire" and "drive".
Drawing on Lacanian psychoanalytic theory, Zizek tells us that "desire" is motivated by the hope of achieving some end (e.g. fame, publication, an audience, etc.). Drive is what happens when such a goal becomes so elusive (or simply hopeless or impossible), that one keeps going just for the hell of it. As Zizek puts it,
"...let us imagine an individual trying to perform some simple manual task -- say grabbing an object that repeatedly eludes him: the moment he changes his attitude, starts to find pleasure in just repeating the failed task [squeezing the object, which again and again eludes him], he shifts from desire to drive..." (p. 10)
The "driven", according to this logic, are often characterized as rebels -- for what motivates them are not the standard-issue rewards that society doles out, but something weirder, more eccentric.
But if driven-ness can have such alienating qualities, why not re-channel one's desire toward something more recognizable and achievable? The problem with this, according to Zizek, is that, paradoxically, this can be profoundly unsatisfying. For our desires are often not really our own, but, as he puts it, "desire for the desire of the Other." That's why they leave one open to humiliation.
Is not the pursuit of fame, for example, often rooted in a desire to create an image of oneself that others will not just approve of, but desire themselves? A wonderful example of this can be found in HBO's mini-series Mildred Pierce.
Artist as Social Climber
The Todd Haynes version of Mildred Pierce accomplishes something rare in U.S. films. Haynes captures, better than any recent director, the intense desire to rid oneself of class shame.
Early in the film, Mildred takes a job as a waitress; not only is she reviled by her daughter for this "disgrace", but thanks to Kate Winslet's masterful, nearly excruciating performance, you know that Pierce hates herself for "stooping so low."
Later, we see that Vida, Mildred's daughter (and the externalization of Mildred's own ambitions for the good life), does find a route out of the reviled service industry (and a way to look good): she sings opera. Mildred is so taken with this that she spends the profits she's made in the restaurant business on buying fine outfits for Vida, for her debut at the Hollywood Bowl.
When Vida appears on stage, Mildred, in the audience, can hardly contain herself. She gasps with excitement and begins sobbing when, at the end of the performance, her daughter sings "I'm Always Chasing Rainbows" directly to her. (Winslet's mastery of facial expression here is incredible). It's touching but pathetic.
And it gets worse. Vida runs off with Mildred's "classy" husband -- leaving her mother bankrupt and even more humiliated than when she worked as a waitress.
Poetry vs. Prose
Of course, our Reality TV culture, which insists there is something wrong with us if we don't really want (conventional) success, understands the motivations of Mildred Pierce better than those of Dickinson.
But the beauty of Haynes film is that it suggests that cliched narratives of "the good life" are at least as confining and alienating as being driven to follow an eccentric path.
Perhaps Dickinson was hinting at her own disinterest in such conventions -- more the stuff of novels than of poetry -- when she began one of her most well-loved poems with the lines: "I dwell in Possibility -- /A fairer House than Prose --". Thoughts?
It was great to collaborate with artist Tamara Gonzales on this chapbook. We were amazed at how well the poems, inspired by some of my favorite horror stories and movies, and Tamara's goth images, fit together. But rather than hype you on this book myself, here's from Jeffrey Wright's review in the Brooklyn Rail:
"Prom Night is a slick date: a poetry/collage collaboration by Jerome Sala and Tamara Gonzales. With echoes of Poe and H.P. Lovecraft, the camp and sultry verses are paired with eye-dazzling images of equally camp and sultry sirens in full color. Sala, like one of Gonzales's blackbirds, is listening to the 'ruler of an underworld' in 'Lost Planet.' Pluto's demotion and its attendant emotion are dissected in Sala's tight style.
"The Goth undertones are reflected in Gonzales's punk-glam shades of Frida Kahlo and Kiki Smith. A stiletto combo in a pop package: 'a psychic feedback loop that celebrates our universal damnation.'"
Michael Lally, at Lally's Alley adds, "Underneath the campy subject matter is a profound subtext articulated with lyrical panache." (Read Lally's review in full here.)
Here's the title poem, with just one of the images that interweave with it in the book. (Btw: the book has extensive notes at the end that provide a key to its pop references...)
Prom Night
The Gingiss Tux kingdom has fallen Prom Season is haunted by a Slasher Every salacious kiss calls forth a hatchet from the void And Anger's accusatory finger points forth with menace
The Graduates call in sick Their carnations rot, unwanted in their un-watered garbage cans The football team remains unlettered A blank sweater goes better with this illiterate State of Fear Ruled by the Prom's forsaken crown
Empty kingdom! Forced entries inspired by roofies forgotten Fast exits demanded by fright in their place! The back seats of drunken cars abandoned -- No vomit touches the fuzzy upholstery No hand squeezes the absent thighs
Meanwhile, the Slasher proposes negotiations With the United Federation of Potential Victims Without a contract signed in the blood of sacrifice The film cannot go on Retribution for awkward adolescent indiscretion Cannot rain down its severed limbs and sex organs On dark rows of hissing cynics On the other side of the dream's silver walls Milk Duds will go unsold, Waiting in vain under their hot glass counters Chemical popcorn will stop twirling in its iron cradle
The Slasher speaks but no one listens He whispers into the celluloid night But on the other side of his screed and his screen Only his absence applauds in the empty seats
Order Here:
You can order Prom Night from the link below. It's just $13.00. Enjoy!
Elaine Equi (my wife!) has a new book of poems that's just out now from the very cool Coffee House Press. It's called Click and Clone. Since I'm obviously biased in its favor, here's what two distinguished poets have to say about it:
"Elaine Equi seems to know all our foibles and, instead of edging toward the door, reports the latest developments with precise, loving equanimity. Her voice is unique: poised, witty, intimate, and somehow interstellar. It's as if she's visiting from a future where we all appear transparent. Click and Clone is an electrified pleasure field." -- Aram Saroyan
"Spick and span, cut and dry, shake and bake, and now Elaine Equi introduces Click and Clone. These poetically altered texts punch wholes into the multiverses of pop and splendor, short and longing, prose and dreams. Equi says that art can no longer imitate life, it just needs to keep up. As they might say at the racetrack, she leads by a verse." -- Charles Bernstein
And now, for a sampler from the book itself. Here are four of its "interstellar" poems. Enjoy!
Role Reversal
Stendahl claimed he held a mirror to nature.
Like Flaubert, many readers of Madame Bovary exclaimed: "C'est Moi!"
Once reality was dumb and brutish -- in need of art for elevation.
But it's changed -- grown baroque and multifaceted.
Today we can no longer take reality for granted.
Now art is the simpleton.
____________________________________
Led Zeppelin Revision
That stairway only leads halfway to heaven.
_____________________________________
Everybody Has Dreams
Last night, the cook dreamt a giant mouth dribbling blood or ketchup. He has trouble relating to women.
The woman in the beige pantsuit dreamt of a computer that transports objects into the future.
The woman by the window was a little girl holding her mother's hand.
The guy near the door followed a melody into a forest.
The busboy was driving a sports car fast.
The skinny girl was a military general in a country ruled by a giant inflatable cat.
The waitress murdered somebody. Even now, she looks guiltily over her shoulder as she wipes the silverware clean.
___________________________________
Pyrokinesis
Cast of Characters
Jerome, a poet with light brown hair and glasses Elaine, a poet with medium brown hair and contact lenses Martine, a poet with dark brown hair and glasses
Jerome: Pyrokinesis is when you look at a person and they burst into flames.
Elaine: I'm the opposite. I look at a person and I burst into flames.
Martine: When I look at a person, they turn into water.
The Audi commercial that's been airing nearly everywhere lately, caught my attention with its portrayal of a sort of class warfare. Check it out:
The "gluttonous", "stuffy", and generally "outdated" people and products (such as the Mercedes at the end) portrayed here, call up the idea of conservative "old money" -- i.e., the entrenched rich, many of whom have inherited their wealth.
Such folks, with the exception of royalty of course, don't seem to get represented much in our media images lately. Perhaps they seem too inaccessible to provoke interest. That's why the section in the spot where they, their mansions, poodles and chandeliers still live, seems almost like a dream sequence -- scored to a rewrite of the classic children's book Goodnight Moon.
Of course, the spot isn't addressed to such phantoms (or those who aspire to be them). It speaks instead to those in the market for a luxury car (this Audi starts around $78,000), who identify with the futuristic appeal of Audi design -- people who demand "inspiration", "illumination", and most of all, today's hottest commodity, "innovation".
Audi's brand image is constructed through such attributes. It's said to signify "innovative design and technology", and a "progressive" outlook. As Dan Pankraz, a student of luxury brands sums this up: "Audi is modern."
And the section of the elite class who might be identified by such characteristics does make the news enough to become objects of emulation.
"...the rich of today are also different from the rich of yesterday. Our light-speed, globally connected economy has lead to the rise of a new super-elite that consists, to a notable degree, of first- and second-generation wealth. Its members are hardworking, highly educated, jet-setting meritocrats who feel they are the deserving winners of a tough, worldwide economic competition -- and many of them, as a result, have an ambivalent attitude toward those of us who didn't succeed so spectacularly."
These folks do, in fact, owe much of their wealth to innovations -- whether they be technological, financial, or "the liberalization of global trade." Their social life is said to be different as well:
"The debutante balls and hunts and regattas of yesteryear may not be quite obsolete, but they are headed in that direction. The real community life of the 21st century plutocracy occurs on the international conference circuit."
My guess is that the demos of the audience that Audi is after are younger than the Mercedes crowd -- the type of folks who would aspire to the values of the new, rather than the old class of elites.
Accordingly, the spot seems to say, "Don't emulate the snobby old school; not when Audi can drive you to your future."
Where Have We Seen This Before? Ask Ezra Pound...
I wondered why this spot, despite its praise of all things new, nevertheless felt a little old-fashioned to me. Then I remembered that playing off the "decadent bourgeois" against the values of modernity is as old as modernism itself. Ezra Pound's poem, "Les Millwin" (1913), for example, portrays the upper crust "Millwin" clan at the ballet:
The little Millwins attend the Russian Ballet. The mauve and greenish souls of the little Millwins Were seen lying along the upper seats Like so many unused boas.
A few lines later, these indolent folks meet with the vitality of young "Futurists":
With arms exalted, with fore-arms Crossed in great futuristic X's, the art students Exulted, they beheld the splendours of Cleopatra.
Pound scholar Christine Froula commented that these lines refer to Italian Futurism, whose "aesthetic exalted speed, motion, the abstract qualities of life in the machine age." (p. 50) Faced with such an aesthetic, the Millwins are caught, deer-in-the-headlights fashion, and can only look on passively, "With their large and anaemic eyes."
It's worth remembering, though, that despite their "revolutionary vitality" the Italian Futurists, and indeed, Pound himself, ended up endorsing the very old-fashioned values they seemed to criticize: they backed Mussolini -- and his bureaucratic neo-traditionalism (dressed up, of course, in modernist garb).
Cultural critics, such as Jodi Dean, wonder, in fact, if our current crop of techno-futurists will up strengthening -- by renovating and upgrading -- the very order they initially criticized in their cyber-communalist, "information wants to be free" days. (p. 27)
The jury's still out on such a question. What is fair to say, though, is that using the language of "technical innovation" helps Audi put a more contemporary spin on what's fast becoming, with the age of the electric car looming, a pretty old-fashioned product.
For, even with "13% better fuel efficiency" than its predecessor, it's increasingly difficult to see any gasoline powered car as particularly modern.
