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Michael Chabon and a Comment

On Friday, as I was leaving work (my office has a thing called “summer hours,” which means if you work an extra four hours over Monday-Thursday, you can leave at 1:00 on Friday…I take full advantage), Fresh Air was on the radio. Specifically, they had a repeat of a Michael Chabon interview. I did not hear the whole thing, but one of Chabon’s comments resonated particularly with me. He said something to the effect that when he was writing in high school, the writing was really an excuse for creating maps, flow charts, imaginary histories, etc. He said that The Lord of the Rings was basically an excuse for Tolkien to create a language and maps. This comment resonated because in high school I was doing much the same. Inspired by a combination of Isaac Asimov’s Foundation series, Frank Herbert’s Dune series, and Star Wars, I created galactic empires, faux family trees, imperial family hierarchies, etc., etc. I don’t think I ever wrote more than 50 pages of endless trilogies and sweeping grand science fiction epics. But it was fun to dream up whole worlds and systems.

I thought it was an interesting comment, one that seemed similar to my own experience, and it brought back some memories.

Blackberry Picking

This past weekend, my wife and I were at Lowe’s picking up some hostas and supplies. We looked at some blackberry bushes. We decided to wait until this coming weekend to purchase and plant. One of my favorite poems by Seamus Heaney is his “Blackberry-picking.” While we are some time away from being able to harvest even one blackberry (and probably a year from a substantial harvest), I thought I would go ahead and share this poem.

Blackberry-picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer’s blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard’s.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn’t fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they’d keep, knew they would not.

Early Heaney (essentially, for me, his writing in the 70s and early 80s), I find the most enjoyable, the most refreshing. This poem captures the easy nostalgia (without crude sentimentality), rhyming, strong everyday images I find so compelling in his work. As with all Heaney, the simple story stands for much more than the story itself. We can enjoy it simply enough about youths excited with the blackberry-picking season only to see the majority of the fruit rot, uneaten. More generally, I think you can read this poem with the understanding that the fruits of life exceed our ability to enjoy; we let much go to waste. The reference to Bluebeard is a haunting image (and thoroughly apt imagewise, typical of Heaney in his prime). Anyways, I’ll leave a fuller interpretation to the reader.

Poetry and the Meaning of Self

Every artist must confront, eventually – perhaps constantly – what the art means in relation to them and society. For many artists, this is never explicitly explored or commented on, but every time an artist picks up a pen or a brush, they are essentially confronting and answering these questions: What is the purpose and why am I pursuing it here? And no one answer is ever likely to satisfy all the reasons why humans have pursued artistic expression. I assume that for every artist, the answers are complex and hazy. And note that I am attaching no “value” judgment to the art. Poems that have fallen out of the memory of history and culture had authors who faced the artistic purpose and meaning question when they wrote it, just as much as John Keats faced it when writing “Ode to Psyche.” Nor are these questions simply the realm of what we consider the traditional arts: literature, painting, sculpture, composition, etc., but to myriad arts that more frequently cross our daily lives an tend not to be associated with so-called high art, such as knitting, woodcarving, comedy, etc. These arts very much serve a creative purpose, even if history typically assigns them less of a “value” – that said, many museums has sections devoted to textiles or home furnishings.
My art is poetry, so my answers are necessarily occupied with that art form. I am not sure how to adequately articulate one aspect of why I write, which is I feel a physical and mental requirement to do so. Other writers I have talked to have expressed this same sensation, almost as if writing was a nutrient that without replenishment in the form of writing would result in a wasting away. The urge to write may be tied up with the second aspect of why I write: Poetry helps me make sense of the world, of my emotions, of the beautiful and ugliness that I see. This seems a bit grandiose and – at the same time – common, but I think it is a significant factor why many artists create even if they never say it close to those terms. Picasso’s Guernica seems to me one of the highest achievements of an artist attempting to make sense of world.

Making sense of the world does not need to rely on world events or tragedies for the creation of art, however. Why do I have a sense of joy at a sunset? Why do I have a sense of melancholy at a sunset? Both feelings are valid and possible – even at the same time. This everyday occurrence provides substantial opportunities for an artist to explore the nature of those feelings, their contexts, their dramas as well as the beauty that such scenes can provide. Art is one of the mechanisms we have for understanding and comprehending our “meaning.” Science and religion are two others. I used quotes around “meaning” because that is a potentially controversial term. I think for most people, the meaning-of-life question makes sense without getting caught up in the linguistic/philosophical trap of what do we mean by “meaning.” That said, the trap is there and worth discussing for those who so wish to. Just note, that I think finding “no meaning except as we create it” as Existentialists do is essentially a meaning as well – hence, the use of quotes.

Writing, specifically poetry, is for me is an important mechanism for understanding everything about me. For whatever genetic, cultural, or what-have-you reasons, I have found that this activity provides an important antidote to the seeming chaos of being alive on this planet. This is regardless of any “success” I may have in the traditional sense of success (even in the poetry world), and I believe this is essentially a very common situation for every one. Some of us have the luxury of pursuing poetry or painting to do so. Others find religion or science as their mechanism. We all find ways or either wrestling with “meaning” or ignoring it. It still sits there, lurking. So I put pen to paper and hope I gain some understanding and write a memorable and beautiful work.

Happy Birthday!

Today is the love of my life’s birthday, so happy birthday Gina!

These are just a few of my favorite photos of her. It’s impossible to describe or relate the amount of joy and love she’s brought to my life, and I will never be able to repay even a portion of that back.

Concept Borders

The grand opening of the new concept Borders in Noblesville, Indiana is this weekend. I ended up buying two books (Empires of the Word: A Language History of the World and Billy Budd and Other Stories), but the store was a huge disappointment. I’m not exactly sure what the new concept is other than it is claustrophobic and finding the section you want is diabolically difficult. Sadly, there were far fewer books per square foot than any other traditional Borders I have been too.

This store was particularly inept in stocking as well. Fiction was scattered throughout the poetry section and a quick browsing of the fiction section gave me W.S. Merwin’s The First Four Books of Poems and (yes, and) The Second Four Books of Poems. To quote a Simpsons episode: “Man alive! There’s a man alive in here!”

Joe Bolton

I have recently completed Joe Bolton’s The Last Nostalgia: Poems 1982-1990. Joe Bolton? I do not know of anyone personally who has heard of this poet. I only learned of him from an essay of William Logan’s. Logan praised Bolton, and I have learned that if Logan praises a poet, the poet is worth investigating, even if I do not end up agreeing with Logan. I do agree with Logan about Bolton.

Bolton was born in Kentucky in 1961 and tragically took his own life in 1990. Much of Last Nostalgia is early work you would expect of a poet finding his or her voice and method, but much of it is striking work. In Bolton, I have found poetry that lives and breathes America, particularly Kentucky, Florida, and Houston. Bolton’s poetry seems emblazoned with the localities of his existence. I cannot imagine anyone but an American poet writing these. Here is his “American Tragedy”:

The Chevrolet fires past two blond children
Eating mud in the ditch by the dirt road.
Kentucky, midsummer, sun going down -
Day like an empty shotgun shell, still warm,
Fragrant with dog shit and honeysuckle.

The skinny girl inside the white trailer
Is drinking gin and torturing herself
With a cigarette: nipples, navel, crotch.
The screen door hangs by one broken finger.
Past dark, a light comes on. Nothing happens.

Iron Man and Childhood

I saw the Iron Man movie this past weekend, and I thought it was amazing. Perfectly cast, stunning special effects, simple plot. For those unfamiliar with the Iron Man story, Tony Stark is a technical genius, graduating MIT at 15. He takes over his father’s company, Stark Industries, which has made its fortune by producing weapons of war. Stark is taken hostage (the comic book and the movie differ in the location and specific hostage takers while remaining true to the genesis story) but is gravely injured. A man named Yinsen saves his life by fitting a magnet over Stark’s chest that prevents shrapnel from moving into his heart. Stark builds a suit of armor to break himself and Yinsen out. Stark escapes and Yinsen dies in the attempt. This life altering event compels Stark to develop this suit of armor and take on the superhero mantel.

This is, of course, removes a great deal of detail, though it carries the gist of the story. You can find more details at Wikipedia.

I have long hoped for an Iron Man movie, and it finally came. I was immensely impressed and am excited about seeing further installments (Jon Favreau has indicated this is the first in a planned trilogy). Most people I know have neither heard of Iron Man or know of the character only in passing, but for me in my teenage years, Iron Man was my comic of choice. Most of my high school friends who read comics were focused on The X-Men, Spider-Man, the Fantastic Four, and Batman. As the movie came closer to release, I contemplated my attachment to the series. Why did I like Iron Man when, clearly, other superheroes were more popular. I think I understand now why, though I would never have considered this in my teenage years.

While I was not subject to bullying on a constant basis, I did experience some sporadic bullying: surprise punches, an awful week at Boy Scout camp, etc. Again, nothing persistent, but enough to encourage a presumed physical weakness, which I only overcame in the summer prior to starting college when I was a laborer for a roofing company. I found escape by reading, writing (focused heavily at this time on espionage or epic science fiction), and comic books.

All superheroes and comic books have unrealistic settings, etc. (it’s their nature), but Iron Man seemed more rooted in reality than others. His world is not so fantastic as others. Keeping shrapnel from puncturing his heart with a magnet seems possible. Getting bit by a radioactive spider and gaining its powers, while cool, seems in no way possible. So Spider-Man or The X-Men (products of mutations that enable supernatural abilities) gain their powers by seeming magic. Iron Man, on the other hand, is the creation of the mind. Stark uses his genius and technology to create a suit of armor that provides his powers. Without his suit, Stark is all human…just a genius.

For a teenage boy lost in books, Iron Man’s display of ingenuity to combat evil seemed, somehow, realistic…that through using your intelligence you could overcome evil (or some teenage brutes). I retain to this day fond memories of those Iron Man comics I poured over month after month.

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While almost everyone will be aware of the upcoming Indiana Jones, Batman, and M. Night Shyalaman movies (all of which I am looking forward to), here is one that seems to be slipping under the radar, but don’t let it: The Fall.