new old poem, food

First, I wanted to show you if you didn't already catch my other links that the new Blossombones is live; here's a new poem. I'm sorry I'm so late to rise with this, but I've been working straight since last Monday. Work is a useful thing; it gives us money which can be used to pay for many things like cotton candy and herbal sleep aids and educational tapes. I believe in work. Guess which one is me in the photo? You can't really see me, I'm obscured. It's not a very good photo. But you can see we each get our own machine, and that's exciting!

You should read the poem. It's for their Marked issue, which, at least visually tying the issue together, seems to be about imprints on the body. Mine isn't really about that in the strictest sense, but I'm sure you can catch where the mark comes in. And OK, the poem isn't new -- I think it's about a year old. But just to re-iterate, work is pretty consuming.

Tonight, if I get more new potatoes from the CSA pickup, I am making new potatoes and onion sauce, the classic Finnish way. Because aside from work, my big pleasure is good food. Ok, now I have to run -- these victory rolls take a long time to set.

Kodiak Moment

My sister Minna, who is a maniac, designed this punny t-shirt. Word around the (surrounded, extremely dangerous) campfire is that she's hocking them for a modest $10, which this includes shipping. You should get one before the bears smell your puny human fear and come advancing. Just email minnimyy at gmail.com for the details.

Brooklyn's Poet Laureate?

Brooklyn is a place I've grown to love, as my friends and family know by the fact that I won't stop talking about it on holidays away from it. (And by my incessant cries of "BROOKLYN" while punching people from other boroughs.) We've had our share of shitty times here, but it's kind of a great place, full of anachronisms and jutting, awkward juxtapositions. Within one mile radius of an area whose skyline constantly cracks open with ever-growing new condominium buildings, one may also find lower-lying gems like a typewriter repair shop, a tortilla factory, a community garden, Richie's Gym, a park, a performance space, a wine store, and a supermarket with the biggest baddest produce section ever. There's truly something for everyone, even here in teeny tiny North Brooklyn.

It's no surprise, then, that a lot of poets make their home here in the BK. Famous examples, of course, include Hart Crane and Walt Whitman; however, today's Brooklyn has a kick-ass literary scene that includes D. Nurkse, Matthea Harvey and other prizefighters. But who shall reign supreme over them all in the brightly lit ring of boro-poetixxx? Who shall Marty Markowitz anoint as the laureled knight of this vast and wondrous area? We-ell, Gersh Kuntzman at Brooklyn Paper gave us some ideas, recently -- and the audience (eh, the BP-reading audience anyway, let's be honest) sounded off faster than GG Allin could remove his clothes: nearly unanimously, they want Sharon Mesmer. Kinda awesome about that. What do you think? Is flarf a dirty word, anyway? Can we have this flarfist (who recently at least in part inspired some of the crazy fucking craziness all over the internet in response to Poetry Magazine's Flarf Issue) representing Brooklyn? Why, hell yes.


Gosh, she says "bitch" like fifty times in the first minute and a half, and that's alright in my book, which obviously is the most current and awesome of the books all over anywhere. Whatever, at least Brooklyn isn't the most repressed borough. (I'm looking at you, Mannyhat.)

to Saturday!

Tonight, I had the fortune of taking part in a dance party. I'm a miserable dancer, first of all -- I may have talked about it on this blog before -- I flail and thrash and knock out passersby with my enthusiastic moves. But that's just it: my moves are motivated by pure passion. And really, what more passionate era for dance music is there than the gorgeous, gory 80's? The 80's, when nobody minded if you acted out the words in dance form? The 80's, when your moves were only eclipsed by your shoulder pads? Thanks Gina for inviting me to your shenanza. I had a fabulous time.

Yesterday, I went to see Kalkwerk, directed by Krystian Lupa, which was on as a part of the Lincoln Center Festival. The production was a sprawlingly tidy four hours long, with two intermissions; presumably both were necessary to bring the viewers back from the absolutely existential bleakness of the first and second act. (I didn't get up between 7PM and 11PM. I have a social bladder.)

Kalkwerk's production is relentless in its portrayal of the wretched genius; Konrad, the somewhat-narrator, is unable to sleep or even be normal because of his obsession with a certain treatise he claims he will one day write on the subject of hearing. He subjects his invalid wife to a series of auditory exercises that go on for hours in the lime works (the titular Kalkwerk) that they've moved into, and the rest of the day they only eat or sleep. In the end, the narrator has nothing to show for the enormous sacrifices both he and his wife made for the advancement of this scholastic notion. The production is beautiful to watch, powerful and intriguing, and Krystian Lupa directs his actors to the point of exhaustion so they're spot on with every bit of disturbed silence. It's also funny in parts -- but don't expect a happy ending, or even an ending, really. Kalkwerk is not for the kicky rom-com seekers among us.

Tomorrow, Coney Island, to round out the culturally relevant weekend I've been having.

lights and colors: the spectacular tremble

Whoever came up with this graphic is a gorgeous fiend and really onto something. Speaking of "onto something"..............
.......I think (and this idea originally was conceived and typed as a response to Nicolle Elizabeth's most recent deadly manifesto) that I would like to put together a collection of poems (w/multiple authors) called I Saw the Best Minds of My Generation Naked On The Internet. What do you think? C'MON, WHO'S WITH ME? Let's all stand in a circle and then put our hands into the middle of the circle and then pull them out in a fast way while shouting. And that's how it's done in America. And then once the excitement from the motion and noise calms down, if you want to get in touch or otherwise brainstorm, shoot me an email at niina dot pollari at gmail. So far I don't know any of the other details!

Guys, I was booted from Project Verse for turning in a poem too late. It's not Dustin's fault; I sent the thing at like 5PM after having internet trouble in the morning that it was due. I'd already given up but he asked me if he could post the poem, anyway. You can see it at his blog, along with the other submissions. I've gotta say from reading the submissions that I have a favorite for the win, but I'm not sure I want to disclose the name yet.... my favorites on ANTM always got kicked off the week I started rooting for them.

And FINALLY -- At-Large Magazine presents B-SIDES AND RARITIES, the dark horse follow-up to spring's wondrous A-SIDES. This one features poetry by Gregory Lawless, Nicole Steinberg, Benjamin Dickerson, Florencia Varela, Eric Amling, and Megan Moriarty as well as a translation collaboration between Patrick Kosiewicz and Najwa Masri and art/response from Mira O'Brien and J. Mae Barizo. Roof Alexander and Patrick James bring the fiction, and we have music from Piedra Del Sol and artwork by Bryan Schnelle. In other words it's like a pinata -- no matter where you hit it, goodies will come falling out.

removing the body: love & the internet

At the New York Times on 9 July, writer Virginia Heffernan talks about internet romance. This is topical because of the disastrous, poorly-explained textploits of Governor Sanford, though of course as the author points out, the epistolary romance is an old, old tradition that we can cite many examples from. What's so fascinating and different about love in the new media, then? Well, this is a good point:

By removing the body from relationships, electronic communication makes romantic love less animal.The lovers’ discourse becomes simultaneously more childlike and more intellectual, more spiritual.

When Ms. Heffernan brings up the removal of the body, I can't help but think of Augustine or even modern anorexia - the idea that you can control the body enough to eventually nullify its power on you and clarify your thoughts. Recently the British journalist Liz Jones shared her thoughts on her 40 years of anorexia as she tried "eating normally" for 3 weeks. (Side note: it was not normal eating -- it was fatty, carby eating that couldn't have made anyone feel good.) At one point in the article she talks about how not eating clarifies her thoughts and makes it easier to write - "I never eat when I'm writing, it slows my brain" she says and probably honestly means it. There is some kind of connection between taking power from the body and gaining power in the mind. Many famous authors had or have eating issues; Louise Gluck comes to mind in the poetry genre.

But back to the article. The mind/body seesaw makes the idea of bodiless love somehow more divine or at least more philosophical. The body itself is obscene and to remove it from the act of love leaves nothing but the spiritual - Sanford's "soulmate" connection. The lover becomes an avatar, and the other adjusts accordingly. I think that's not entirely accurate, but there's something fascinating about the icon that represents the lover in place of the lover him- or herself.

I'm also interested in the part in the article in which the author says she doesn't like holding the BlackBerry that her friend, who's having an affair, has been consistently texting on throughout their lunch date. It feels weird to her - it feels hot, and even slightly damp. All electronics get hot after awhile of use, and I wonder if they become a sort of substitute body, quietly metabolizing, heating and then overheating, aptly reflective of the body consciousness that the e-mail or text-exhanges perhaps provoke. E-mail has already largely replaced the paper epistolary, and although in some ways e-mail is less personal (no objects, no lipstick prints, no perfume), e-mail gives us the physical gadget in exchange. We hear it softly exhaling as it cools itself and maybe it's a reasonable substitute for the other person.

niina among the stars

This Twitter is my latest exploit in the fantastic famemongering of the blogosphere. I held out for a long time because I thought it would seem bad to be that self-obsessed when I'm trying to be taken seriously as a writer. But this ties in to the whole ashamed-to-participate phenomenon that unwise writers carry around. I mean, sure, I'm a writerly writer, a poetical poet and some such, but the truth is that I spend a lot of time reading about famous people. Overall, I don't think this is a problem; as Rohin likes to point out during our routine $3-wine-and-Youtube nights, it's probably an asset to be well versed in the wily ways of the media. That way you don't get screwed by your own naivete when you go applying for jobs (those elusive jobs that still remain, you know, like, in New Jersey or something). But Rohin is a fiction writer, and I am but a poor poet. Media obsession (or even interest!) among poets still tends to be kind of like running into an attractive coworker upon exiting the doctor's office bathroom with your urine sample hot and guilty in your hand. You just kind of don't want to talk about it.

Nevertheless, I want to reveal now that I'm completely fascinated by the particular pathos of being famous. I watch ANTM secretly on my computer when everyone is away. I read Go Fug Yourself and laugh myself stupid at the sartorial trapeze work of our favorite complicated famous people. And I sneer at those cats who dare to suggest that we have more important things to do. Like what? Like read Shakespeare? Yes, I agree that we should read him because Shakespeare is important and edifying, but at the same time, saying that he's more important is creating a false dichotomy. The dude was more than well versed in the particulars of his London society and promptly injected all the gaffe and kook into his own work. I guess what I'm trying to say is that this is your world, too, writers -- this endless need to be watched, this Emperor's-New-Clothes-style empire of fabulous lies. And as Dispatchers from the New Media, you have a responsibility to your world. Observe it, read about it, and then pretend you know what you're talking about.

And follow me on your Twitter.

pie

Chickenza says he finds the lobster cutout frightening; steps on it with extreme vigor. Bird Flu comes back because of his contaminant foot. He knows the power he now holds over me, and jeers, calling me "chicken" when I say I won't eat it. Darn you, Chickenza! That's "fowl play."


After we captioned this, we died, so nobody will ever know whether the pie was good, bad, poisoned, or delicious.

The end!