Sunday 27 May 2007
The meadow is good and green. The swallows are driving, metal-backed, into gnat clouds. They are plumping. Young ducks drift about like decoys. Migrating song birds have added to the local noises. To this constant rain, the daisies shut their purple eyes. The Circlers at home are baking, reading fiction, listening to Nina Simone. There is no truth in a day like today save the one I make. I am pacing, making my way through Berryman's Dream Songs, "all a green living/drops limply into one's hands" [Berryman, Dream Songs]. They are difficult but alluring, open-ended. I very much want to understand them. After 2 or 3 reads, I am ready to recite them. I am talking to myself.
A foursome approach. Can we have a poem? Here, have some Berryman. They don't know Berryman. I offer him up again and again. Few people know him. How can it be we are not familiar with Berryman, a American great? How can it be we know O.J. and Lewinsky, yet we do not know Berryman? Find their idols and you will know their passions. They were pleased. They offered a tip, to support the project, The Running Poets of Green Lake. I said no. Participation is what I want. Work. Give me a poem. Come back reciting something. They say they'd send poems written by their 11-year-old daughters. There now, that's better.
THE SPEAKER SPAKE
Twice in a bell today, infuriated. I have a Circler at my desk who does not know their value. I am not let gestalt on them. Outside, the bells. Once after mass, as awkward as a pair of hands, then again as a recorded hymn, the carillon, from the Schulmerich tapes. Be gone. Let me have them. I have a Circler at my desk who does not know their value.
A MID-CENTRAL NEUTRAL VOWEL
Schwa is here! Schwa and Val. Schwa brings news. There is a new ICA in Boston. He went to the opening and saw Rachel Perry Welty's "Karaoke Wrong Number"ICA Boston].
FUCK YOU: A Magazine of the Arts
Yes. Fuck You. It's raining. It’s cold.
The Wart visits. He brings, to the table, two poets, Tuli Kupferberg and Ed Sanders, both members of The Fugs, a 60s rock band based in NYC . Michael knows the Fugs.
I'm interested to hear about Ed Sanders’ publishing endeavors. His magazine, Fuck You, had a credo: "I'll print anything." Sanders printed the beats, Ginsberg, Whalen, Ferlinghetti, pop artist Andy Warhol... The Fugs were committed to the literary arts and drew from famous literature for their songs. One Ring Zero in Brooklyn, the Barbes people, are doing something similar, creating musical recordings based on contemporary literature.
Tuli Kupferberg is famous, says The Wart, for having jumped off a bridge and survived. "Kupferberg reportedly appears in Ginsberg's poem Howl as the person ′who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown′" [Wikipedia].
The walkways were percolating & snapping with rain when I left my apartment this morning and I was wet to the knees by mile one. I was wet well above the knees by the time I made the Aurora bridge, and on to the mid-thigh by time I reached the zoo. The poncho I threw over my windbreaker turned the rain upside down and so I got wet from the ankles up. Rain clouds on the avenue.
The path is nearly closed now by the 5' tall grass growing from either side. I was pulled back by pricklers 3 times. This is my absolute and final 4-mile walk to Green Lake along Aurora. I am moving this Thursday. The last month of my project will start and end in Ballard. What a strange effect this will have on my Green Lake experience.
It is 1:38pm. I have gone up to PCC to warm up with a tea. Clinton & I started discussing what my final day might look like. He offered the mast of his hand built sailboat to use as a maypole for hanging poems. He offered a departure by water. Shall I play Ariadne who sailed off with Bacchus? Off to become a constellation?