The Best Laid Plans

 With my schedule as unscheduled as it is, I have to rely on my inner-tyrant to keep discipline in my working life. My personal life can be a mess, it often is, but work, work is a special kind of plodding, a methodical effort that never stops, rarely slows, and can accelerate without warning. With that in mind, you’ll understand when I say that today was terrible. It is evening, and I’ve not worked at all. I put this lack of productivity squarely on the sloping shoulders of my aging, yet irresponsible, aspiring slumlord. He has yet to actually reach the title of “slumlord,” though he does try.

The problem, this time, is this: I have no screens in my windows. Because I am about two blocks from the lake (a big scary one), and because he pays all utilities, we get these industrial strength stormwindows come October. They make bulletproof gas station windows look wussy. While this is quite nice in a blizzard, it’s not so nice come June, come a heatwave (for us at least) that’s kept my upper apartment a toasty 87 degrees all day. He was supposed to put the screens in last week. It is unworkable warm. When my fingertips leave sweaty sluglike trails across the mousepad, it’s time to call it a day. I’ve heard that Hemingway shared this belief. Myth has it that he worked in the morning until he felt sweat on his brow and then blew off the day, went drinking down at some dive in the Keys. 

But, since I’m not much of a morning drinker, I went hiking the shoreline instead. I know, it’s pretty lame to bitch about hiking. But hear me out: though I often go hiking, most days I have the ability to not-hike and work instead. Today, I felt like I was exiled from my house Microsoft documents. I didn’t have the choice to say, “I’m not working now. I’ll work tonight.” I was trying to work. But I got cranky, sweat went in my eye, and DawgE was staring at me with an ironic, are you kidding me? look. I went through these choices that would have allowed me to continue working:

1. Move the desks into the kitchen, open the freezer and fridge door. 

2. Break into the basement.     

3. smash out all windows, flies and lawsuit be damned.

Of course, all three have their merits, but I opted instead to take the forced morning and afternoon off. If it wasn’t for some wonderful company and the pollen turning streaks of neon yellow in the deep blues of the lake, I assure you that the hike and the swim would have been a sullen affair, and, had someone seen me, they’d have thought I was on some self-imposed deathmarch.

The plan, after all, was to work all day, with breaks at my whim (or the dog’s), and take a good hike in the evening. I’m flexible with everything else in my life, really. I don’t care what I eat, where I go, or anything else. I don’t mind the plow rusting in my frontyard or the weeds challenging the wrought iron porch rails. I don’t care that my floors are uneven, that a tennis ball rolls to the corner, quickly. All I want is a breeze–and there is one out there–to come through a window without bringing along flies and other bugs. Damn landlord, he’s getting more slummish to me each day the mercury peaks.      

PSA: Poetry Service Announcement

I’ve found that it often takes a while for a poem to circulate, let alone a whole collection getting its feet under itself. “Young” poets are often in their 30s and 40s, and books languish with low sales, years between second printings (if the book is lucky enough for a second print). Poetry, for a number of reasons not relevant here, has gotten somewhat of a bad reputation as the activities of depressives, wimps, or the self-absorbed. While I’m sure there are depressives, wimps, and self-absorbed poets out there, some of our greatest poems are, in essence, hymns; they are praises to the small and the great of our lives. See the work of Ilya Kaminski, for example, in his collection Dancing in Odessa. While he doesn’t shy away from tragedy or flinch when recalling brutality, the poems are, strangely at times, expositions in the human ability to love and persevere regardless of the external circumstances. This is but one example of some poetry that refuses to buckle. Instead, the poems witness without despair. It’s powerful stuff and not the “Woe is me” so many readers expect from their verse. 

On the wimpfront: False. I have seen poets fight. Some of them are good at it. Scarier yet, many of those who are good at it, enjoy doing it. But that’s neither here nor there. Consider a better form of non-wimp in Frederico Garcia Lorca who, for debatable motives, was executed in Spain. Or Russian poet Osip Mandelstam who was arrested twice by Soviet forces and ultimately died in a transit camp where he was being held for “counter-revolutionary activities.” Here’s a fragment of an untitled poem from 1937, a year before his death:

You’re still alive, you’re not alone yet—

she’s still beside you, with her empty hands,

and a joy reaches you both across immense plains

through mists and hunger and flying snow.

 

Opulent poverty, regal indigence!

Live in it calmly, be at peace.

Blessed are these days, these nights,

and innocent is the labor’s singing sweetness.

 

Miserable is the man who runs from a dog

in his shadow, whom a wind reaps at the knees,

and poor the one who holds out his rag of life

to beg mercy of a shadow.  

Translated from Russian by Clarence Brown and W.S. Merwin, the poem captures the desperation of the speaker’s plight while balancing the hope found in the speaker’s female companion’s “empty hands.” Definitely a not-wimp.

As for self-absorption, well, that’s endemic, and you can hardly blame poets alone for a flaw such as this.

This brief take is, of course, not meant to be comprehensive. Nor is it meant to be taken too seriously. My main hope is that we can scrap the whole high school memorization of a Shakespeare sonnet forced upon us by well-meaning but ill-informed teachers. Poetry can be a vital energy for our aesthetic and moral development; it can slow us down long enough to see the poetry in our lives, in the grind of the predawn garbage truck, in the call of a far-off dog barking down the moon.

Your Guide to the Outland’s Eateries

 (I don’t even know where in the area this place is. It might be the Holiday Inn).  

Food and me: We’ve had a tough relationship over the years. It wasn’t either of our faults, really; it was more the circumstances of my life which led me to quit eating hot food for nearly two years. The heat almost ruined everything. For a few years I had traveled throughout the US, following the cactus blooms and the warm weather. But, one cannot live on Yucca alone, and necessity dictated that at times I find gainful employment. This usually meant stints in kitchens in summer. With temperatures in the 100’s outside and me tending what might as well have been blast furnaces, I was not unlike Hell’s coalman, stoking the flames, flipping burgers, and nurturing giant vats of green chili over doubleburners. Needless to say, at the end of my shifts, all I wanted was cold cereal and an apple. This is still the case for me. I’m a cold breakfast guy. But, since relocating, I’ve tried to rekindle some love for cooked food. And, since I’ve been tagged by WriterChick, whose site is fabulous and strongly recommended, I’m here to guide you to the finest eateries this remote and wintery land has to offer. In no particular order, then, my five must-eat places on Lake Superior’s southern shore:

The Thai House: Nothing says Upper Midwest culinary craft like Thai food. Yet, for some reason, this city of just over 20,000 souls supports two Thai restuarants. The Thai House is the good one. The other shall remain nameless and shunned. Located in what was once a fast food joint of some sort (the drive-through lane is still there, complete with broken down speaker and menu board), this restaurant offers a full slate of authentic Thai cuisine. They seperate their calamari into heads and legs, so I am always sure to ask for the heads alone as an appetizer. It comes with a peanut plum sauce which I have been caught eating alone straight off the tiny spoon. I’m told this is bad form. From there, it’s wide open. The menu boasts curries, noodles, stir fries, soups, and you-name-its. If it’s Thai, it’s there. But I suggest underestimating your ability to stomach spicy food. Though you can select from a one to five spice range, anything above a two is uneatable.

Vango’s: Looking for late night pizza and beers with the soccer team? With friends? With your alcoholic cousin who just wants a quick beer or twelve? Vango’s is the place. It’s a less-than-inviting atmosphere at first with a fixture of sullen hipster types drinking Pabst at the bar, wearing sunglasses indoors, and otherwise trying to appear menacing or cool. I don’t which but assure you they are neither. However, once they’re done hateglaring you, settle on in to the darkly varnished booths or belly up to the hightops edging the room, and you’re in good shape for the best pizzas in the Upper Peninsula. Made from scratch, they use giant Blodgett ovens that are wonderful for cooking hard, slightly darkened crust. They serve as well a white chili with pork that, while good alone, is wonderful poured over a basket of french fries. It’s also within walking distance of a couple sports bars and neighborhood taverns. A must for your cousin.

The Pasta Shop: For a tamer dining expierence, check out The Pasta Shop. It’s a small converted house that not only serves meals but sells in bulk the best homemade noodles, pesto, and meat sauces I’ve ever eaten. It’s reasonably priced, and the portions are deceptively filling. The employees, though courteous, are a little intense, and I think that this would be your best chance in the Midwest for a soup-nazi-like experience. Critical of that spinich and riccota gnocci? Well, maybe you should just get the hell out and never let your unappreciate ass darken this door again. But if you mind your manners and drop the obligatory superlatives loud enough for them to hear, you’ll be allowed back for more.    

Thunder Bay Inn: Because of its location and lodging option, this bed and breakfast is a Friday/Saturday get-away. About forty minutes from my home, the Friday fishfry is one of the better ones in the area and worth the drive. A fishfry, for those of you who don’t know, is predominantly a Midwestern Catholic tradition that has become a social event by which much of the town flocks to the taverns for fried perch or walleye with rye bread and onions. Anyway, the manor house once belonging to Henry Ford, and the rooms he and his executives used for hunting retreats are now rented out to lodgers at reasonable rates. Which makes for a wonderful get-away. The town of Big Bay is located on Independence Lake, and you can enjoy a whisky and water after dinner on the porch overlooking the lake and its abandoned lumber mill. The one drawback with Thunder Bay Inn is that the reasonable rates and remote location sometimes attract a rather unsavory clientele. One example: Staying there a while back, I had left a bottle of Dominican Rum in the backroom where I had been playing cards. Stepping in from a cigarette break, I caught a greasy bastard and a skank scurrying off with my bottle (and my cards). Shame on me for leaving it there and tempting the twits…they could have just asked for a glass. My date and I would have gladly shared. Be that as it may, the fishfry is worth the drive and the risk.

 Jasper Ridge Brewery: It is my experience that you find quality microbrewery resaurants in the damnest places. While not actually in my town, Jasper Ridge is one of two local brewpubs in the area. It is by far the better of the two and the drive, while not as beautiful as the one to Thunder Bay, does take the driver past Teal Lake which is pretty enough in its “lake on a state road” sort of way. The building itself is prefab and sort of depressing, but once inside the open concept bar with its high ceilings and smoke-eaters is as nice as you could hope for. Prices here are reasonable, and the way to go is gorging off the appetizer menu with a couple friends. The meals themselves are ok, but the real fare is found in the twice-baked potato wedges, the nachos, and, my favorite, the hot wings. Furthermore, for you sports fans, tv’s are strategically located throughout the bar, allowing for you to keep an eye on whichever score most interests you. I come here on Saturdays in fall to root against Michigan or Michigan State. It’s a fun time for us exiled Wisconsinites to call loudly for the Badger game to be turned up, asking, “Is anyone even watching the Spartans?” Also, their selection of microbrews is hands down the best I’ve found in Michigan. And, if your curious, you can watch the brewmaster toiling behind the plate glass, crafting his beers in the giant tankers.

And there you have it, folks. The five best places to eat in the Central Upper Peninsula.  I want to thank WC for the tag and the opportunity to trot out my golden ponies of ribsticking goodness. It was fun for me to write, and I hope it was fun to read. Should you ever find yourself in land of pine and sand (though I don’t know how you would find yourself here), drop a line–we’ve got dinner plans.       

    

I *Heart* Literary Journals

One of my favorite things about being a writer is the sense of tradition I feel whenever I fire up a new Word Document or take pen to paper, jotting in my illegible scrawl some thought, some image, I will one day try to craft into a piece. The act of writing is the act of joining a community that spans time and space, and cannot be limited by age, race, or era. When you write, you join a conversation. A “California Supermarket” that shows up in one of your poems cannot be seperated from Ginsberg’s. We write from, or in response to, the views of those who came before us. For me, I write from Cormac McCarthy’s driving prose, from Yusef Komunyakaa’s lyrical visions, and from Wallace Steven’s technical precision. And, if you write in English, you cannot escape the Great Bard’s impossible shadow. Nor, for that matter, can you escape Emily Dickinson or Uncle Walt, or T.S. Eliot or whomever. The point is is that those tried-and-true English-speaking writers (not to mention the many great non-English writers) have left some vast footprints, and it’s important to know where we come from. That’s what our anthologies and favorite college texts help us with. And I love revisiting certain authors whose work continues to mean so much to me.

Equally as important, though, is to know where our contemporaries are. This point is why I think it is so important that we nourish what literary journals we can. I don’t only mean with our submissions but mean as well with our monetary support through subscriptions. Too many dedicated editors and their quality publications fold for lack of funds. Often times, these journals rely solely on subscription fees to keep afloat. There are only so many grants to go around, and many editors find themselves unable to keep their journals afloat for lack of subscribers. Yet, there never seems to be any shortage of submissions.

But, it’s not charity that drives me to subscribe to journals when I can; it’s greed. I love reading what my contemporaries are doing, love finding some gem of a poem that sends me spilling beyond my boundaries. I love when, a year later, I see a first book published by someone whose poem moved me when I read it in a journal. I am not advocating any particular journal, mind you. But I do advocate buying a back issue of a journal or magazine you might submit to. For me, it’s a good way to get an idea if my work would fit, but I am also exposed to more work, more writers I might not have read if it weren’t for their appearance in said journal. And, if I like the mag overall and have the funds, I’ll drop the 15 or so dollars for a year subscription.

The other side of writing well is reading well. Many of my books and magazines are annotated to the point of sin. There are cross-reference marks, question marks, lines I love underlined softly in pencil. That way, I’m actively involved . I’m a participant in making meaning of what I read. Not only is this fun, it helps me as a writer. If I am careless as I read, I will be careless when I write. That does no one any kindness.

For my part, I read as I’d like to be read. Sure it’s a remake of childhood’s golden rule, but I tell you what, whatever you read has cost someone a lot of time, effort, and energy. Plus, it might be damn good and, if you’re rushing, you’ll miss the greatness. And there’s a lot of greatness in journals and magazines and other small presses.

If you like, I’d be happy to comment on a few of my favorites, but I am not advocating any particular press or magazine. Rather, I believe writers should read nearly as much as they write. And just about every University has a magazine filled with worthwhile prose and poetry.

Anyway! I’m off to watch the rest of the NBA game. And then off to read and to bed and in the morning…Friday, which is Billiards day for me. Nine ball run, come on! Whoot!

On Recalling A Smarmy Man

I left home when I was 18, moved out to Colorado, got a few part-time jobs in order to scramble the cash needed to upgrade my camping equipment so I could, within the year, travel the Southwest. Which I did, and which is a story for another day. I only mention this to lead here: While I was camping outside Taos, I somehow got invited to a writer’s party. Since it was a decision between hanging out with writers or hanging alone by my sputtering pinion fire in late November, it was really no decision at all.

Yet, within minutes of getting handed a glass of wine and hating how my bootheels clacked across the hardwood, I wished I was home, as in back at camp, where at least I could smoke cigarettes in peace, journal, and enjoy the cooling high desert night. I was slightly intimidated by these people. They were well-dressed, older, and clearly moved in educated and urbane circles that I had yet to encountered. To be fair to myself, I was nineteen, reading everything I could get my hands on, and just starting to put together some sort of aesthetic, some system of beliefs and values that would inform my writing, my reading, and my thoughts on literature, life, and just who I wanted to be. And what I learned that night was who I wasn’t and who, gratefully, I could never be.   

After a while, a smarmy loafers-and-no-socks, white jeans and braided belt kind of guy started in on me, asking pointed questions about college (which I had yet to attend), what I thought of this, that, and the other book he clearly knew I knew nothing about, etc, etc. Long and short, I was his intellectual sparring partner and vastly out-gunned. The group I had been chatting with awkwardly laughed and drifted away.

“So,” He asked, “What do you intend to do with your writing?”

What I told him I knew even then was ridiculous, pompous, and every bit as smarmish and mean-spirited as he was. But I wanted to find a way to smear the condescension on his face into shock, indignation, anything but that patronizing smirk.  

“I intend,” I said slowly, “To be the only American writer that matters.”

Which I knew then and know still is complete bullshit. I don’t want that. Though I didn’t know what I wanted, I knew it wasn’t that. To write, travel, and live well was about the extent of my plans. Other than that, I couldn’t say, and now, years later, that’s still about as far as the master plan goes.

But I can tell you this: that experience made me realize the importance of keeping a balance on the inside. I am never as great nor as hopeless a man or writer as it may feel in any given moment. I plug on. I write on. That’s it. I judge harshly my work and revise. I’ve learned to see writing like any other job. I’m like an accountant but with words. Or a carpenter, a pipefitter, whatever. 

That smarmy twit taught me was that I’d rather been known as a good man than a great writer. I’d like both, of course, but would not sacrifice the former for the latter. We write best from love and praise, from a place where mystery sings the world’s hymn, and we’re lucky enough to hear it and transcribe the results. 

So thanks, Smarmy Man, I appreciate what you’ve done for me.        

A Glance at Jack Gilbert’s “A Stubborn Ode”

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Jack Gilbert, please take a look at the bio link in the previous post. For those of you who know about his work or just don’t care, read on!

For a few years now one of my favorite poets has been Pittsburgh’s own Jack Gilbert. According to his bio, he is currently living in Western Massachusetts, and his work reads, for me at least, as a sensitive yet tough-minded exposition on the realities of rust, decrepitude, and the sufferings of our day-to-day lives. Yet, a sense of grace and acceptance, a tenuous dignity, belies the heartache and very real sorrow that accompanies his speakers’ lives. Enough with the lead-in! Please note the bibliographic information and if you like this piece below, I bet you’ll want to get a copy of the collection for yourself.

Gilbert, Jack. The Great Fires: Poems 1982-1992. New York: Knopf, 1994.

Here’s the poem:

A Stubborn Ode

 

 

All of it. The sane woman under the bed with the rat

that is licking off the peanut butter she puts on her

front teeth for him. The beggars of Calcutta blinding

their children while somewhere people are rich

and eating with famous friends and having running water

in their fine houses. Michiko is buried in Kamakura.

The tired farmers thresh barley all day under the feet

of donkeys amid the merciless power of the sun.

The beautiful women grow old, our hearts moderate.

All of us wane, knowing things could have been different.

When Gordon was released from the madhouse, he could

not find Hayden to say goodbye. As he left past

Hall Eight, he saw the face in a basement window,

tears running down the cheeks. And I say, nevertheless.

  

The stubbornness here is the speaker’s refusal to succumb to the sorrow suggested by the “sane woman,” “the beggars,” and the “farmers,” yet, at line 6 Gilbert moves into his own biography to make more poignant and power the final sentence of the 14th line. Michiko was his wife, who had died from cancer, and Gilbert manages to include her passing (by mentioning her burial city) amongst the other injustices and sorrows that befall the living. Here, then, Gilbert’s speaker is associating himself with the survivors, with those who are ”waning.” And in doing so, the poem seems to suggest that, despite the “blinding,” “the power of the sun,” and seperation of friends, the speaker will accept it all without qualification, explanation, or complaint.

 

There’s a lot more to say, especially about form here, but I’d rather stop now, and let the piece work itself into your mind and heart. Feel free to use the comment feature to open a dialogue about this piece, what you like, don’t like, don’t get, or where I’ve misread in my scant gloss above.                            

 

Walking the Dog

I’m off to walk the dog, all. But again the heavens grow dark, and I want to get a good long jaunt in before the rain. But, to fulfill a promise from a few days ago, I intend on posting a poem from Jack Gilbert’s The Great Fires. He’s a fine poet who offers a rather unique take on suffering, life, and the grace inherent in acceptance of the world as it is. A while ago, he published “A Brief for the Defense,” the opening poem in his 2005 book, Refusing Heaven, in The New Yorker. And the poem we’ll look at is in many ways a precusor to that piece.  If you’ve the time to spare, click here for a quick biography. And here is a link to another great poem from Refusing Heaven.

Ok, the Dawg E and me are off for a tour of new neighborhood smells. As a good friend once said, “She’s reading the paper, catching up on the news of things passing.” But I gather lines and phrases on these walks and enjoy the wanderings through the streets.

Stay (car)tooned, and I’ll get the poem up shortly.

Puddlehead 

Clockman! Quick, Call the Clockman!

Well, the first quarter was…adequate. It seems now that there are clock troubles in Cleveland. First, the game time, then the shot clock, and now Craig Sager is making inane commentary about how the scoreboard too has gone hinky; the clocks look like this, I think:

Chris Webber stuffed his headband in the clockbox, that’s why he’s not wearing it today. Now, they’ve gone with handwatches and airhorns. If this fails, and it might, I suggest sundials and eggtimers.

Oh, and the Cavs are up by nine. Bustville. More news at half. Or something completely different.   

The Rocket’s Tired Groin

As if things for the Yankees weren’t nightmarish enough, Joe Buck’s been repeating the Clemens’ Fatigued Groin angle since first it broke about twenty minutes ago. Supposedly, his groin got sleepy after his start in Wilkesbarre-Scranton. He could shelf himself for the four games staring Monday against the Pale Sox. Yikes for the Yankees. Hooyah for Red Sox fifth man, Julian Taveras, who, wisely because it would’ve been his position the Rocket would’ve taken, said they (the Sox) didn’t need Clemens. Here’s the article outlining Clemens’ weary right groin from Yahoo! Sports. I love that he’s going to lose $153, 006 a day. Shoot, that extra six bills is enough for a pack of Camel nonfilters.

 My guess as to the injury’s genesis? Letting Aerosmith leadman play with his balls:   

 

As the land lies now, should the 10-6 Sox lead in the top of the ninth, the Sox’ll have 13.5 on the Yanks. Does this mean that ESPN might possibly give the AL Central some coverage now? Probably not. My guess is that New York’s meltdown will be the big story of the season. That, or Lou Piniella’s efficient dirt-kicking skills, or Michael Barrett scoreboarding his own pitcher. His own pitcher! I don’t know for sure, but I hope that that’s what Barrett was pointing to. “Yea, Carlos? Scoreboard, dude, scoreboard.” *Punch! Kick! Gnash teeth! Blacken eyes!*

Saturday in the Park (Not Really)

No, no park-going today. Clouds are gathering, and I just know that the second the Dawg E and I get out to the woods we’ll get a hailstorm or trampled underhoof by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse if I don’t get off the trail quick enough. Which is actually a bit of a fear of mine. Somewhere along the way I read that snow and lightning are harbringers of the End of Time. Like proper noun End of Time and not Puddlehead Dies in Tragic Ghosthorse Stampede.

And, as it should be, I have been  in quite a few snow-hail-lightning storms. Though I in no way believe that malarky about the equine avengers, a strange uneasiness washes over me whenever thunder and lightning accompany snow or hail. There should be a phobia for this.

So, I am off for a safe walk through the ’hood but wanted to give any and all the heads up that there is a basketball game in Cleveland tonight. I will be watching, of course, and will again make ridiculous predictions just like I did on Thursday. Stay tuned for that. Also, a A-Rod meltdown today would be beautiful. I hope we can all channel our psychic energies on this afternoon’s Yankee/Red Sox game on Fox and wait for a spectacular display of poor sportsmanship, hug-fighting, and the ghost of Don Zimmer gently guided onto his head by Petey Martinez, his sweet perm in all its wavy glory.

If I’m up for it, a liveblog will ensue for both games. That, or I’ll gloss some poems, turn you on to one of my favorites, Jack Gilbert.