(1) The Seven-Year Itch. Portal to another time and place. | (2) Luther. (The BBC One show, not the original Lutheran, though I suspect there’s a loose but semi-intentional connection between the two. At least I wouldn’t put that sort of allusion past a team of Brits. They’re always thinking, them Brits. Even the TV types.) Portal to another place if not another time. | (3) How one of the many features of love relationships in the contemporary Western world is a blended pop culture provenance. | (4) Cooking with someone, another of the aforementioned features. | (5) A warm bath with Epsom salts. | (6) Nature: all its forms and drives and healing properties. | (7) Having not given up on love relationships in the contemporary Western world. | (8) Capsaicin. (Which is to say: inside jokes.) | (9) Lists. Still, always, and of course. | (10) Springtime sun in Alabama. Especially in the morning but also in the late afternoon. | (11) My new lunch containers. | (12) A clean kitchen. | (13) Putting things in order. | (14) Hootsuite. | (15) Writing in the morning. | (16) Windows open in the morning. | (17) Listening to the birds in the morning. | (18) My framed photo of the Willie Mays catch, artifact of what seems impossible but is not impossible. | (19) The Myth of Freedom. | (20) The Millionaire Mind, which oddly (or not so oddly) echoes Howard Gardner’s Frames of Mind: The Theory of Multiple Intelligences. Also how it describes my friend John M to a tee. (The “M” is for millionaire. Sort of. It’s also for Malatino.) | (21) Ben’s poem, “Rhapsody for Children of the Midwest.” Tour de force. | (22) The ‘Nuts and Seeds’ Clif Bar. | (23) A fridge full of tasty food, already prepared and ready to eat. | (24) Walking meditation. (Still.) | (25) Tomorrow Is My Turn by Rhiannon Giddens. | (26) Feeling like today is my turn. | (27) Sunlight on the stairs. | (28) Having gone to AWP. | (29) Not being at AWP anymore. (30) Surrender. Open arms and heart.
(1) OK Computer. (Still.). | (2) Making soup. | (3) J–. | (4) My school. | (5) Dr. Gunsberg. | (6) That aviation is a thing. | (7) Henry, who loves 2001 and wears his socks conspicuously. (I said my school, right?) | (8) (I said J–, right?) | (9) Putting out 53 poetry books on a table (or two) and having 13 students, aged 12-14 giddy with the enormity of it all. | (10) Hootsuite. | (11) Dr. Goslee. | (12) Reverend Manning. | (13) Mother Robin. | (14) Mark Neely, Mensch/MFA. | (15) Scrubbed-clean Minneapolis. | (16) The poet Hannah Aizenman, who is pivoting, transitioning, Volta-ing. | (17) Giggling uncontrollably with #5 above. In the dark. Like impish little boys on a sleepover. | (18) Poblanos. (Still.) | (19) J–’s toes. | (20) J–’s voice. | (21) How she laughs. | (22) How she says she’s cranky when she’s not. I mean, she is. Inside. But she’s not. Outside. | (23) J–’s inside and her outside too. | (24) Mark Ehling. Mensch/MFA too. | (25) Charles, Ben’s earnest and menschy colleague. | (26) Clarity. | (27) Love. How it insists. It won’t take no for an answer. | (28) Adoring someone. (See #3 above.) | (29) Saturday, the prospect of it. | (30) Sunday, the prospect of it.
From now until March 31, you can pre-order my upcoming book of poems, Americana, for $11.95. What will you do with the $4.05 you save off the regular price? Decisions, decisions… Here’s some cool blurbage, penned by some inimitable poets:
“In TJ Beitelman’s poems, “everything’s a powder / keg,” where everyday occurrences explode into expressions of joy and heartache. Americana begins with an examination of American icons and institutions, then moves out in widening circles to encompass everything from Greek myth to global politics. Here you’ll find strange bedfellows—Bogart and the Big Bang, Hank Aaron and Buddhism, Hezbollah and Frank O’Hara—drawn together by Beitelman’s nimble mind. Full of surprising turns and observations, Americana is a wide-eyed view of the extraordinary world around us, one most of us rarely have the capacity to see.” — Mark Neely, author of Dirty Bomb
“Beitelman’s Americana is a funhouse full of mirrors that reveal the comic, the tragic, the beautiful, and the grotesque of commonalities we can’t avoid: pop culture, politics, history. It is a funhouse where “truth and memory are mute” and the connections between, say, “Bela Lugosi and truck tires” are what guide us through spinning tunnels and illusions. And as we exit, its difficult to say what is more real: Beitelman’s mad rendering or the world that inspired it.” — Michele Battiste, author of Uprising
If I were stranded on a desert island, I’d need these five novels to keep me company:
- The Known World, Edward P. Jones
- High Fidelity, Nick Hornby
- White Teeth, Zadie Smith
- The Passion, Jeanette Winterson
- The English Patient, Michael Ondaatje
I must admit: I’m pleased with myself that my list of Desert Island Five novels includes Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity, which itself starts with its protagonist, Rob Gifford, listing his Desert Island Five all-time heartbreaks. The genius of that book is its unflinching and unerring insight into the mentality of a certain kind of man. Actually: its genius is its unflinching insight into the prevailing male mentality that has been around since, oh, The Beginning of Time.
Surely it is biochemical, our desire to rank and categorize. Surely it still plays itself out in barrios and savannahs just as it does in suburbs and metropolises (and memoirs). Men in particular are known to measure out the value of a thing, compare it to other more or less valuable things. From this, we compile lists, rankings, categories. In Rob Gifford’s case, one set of those more or less valuable things happens to be women. Regardless of what we are objectifying, we do it 1) because we are trying to make the world a little less mysterious and 2) because, by and large, the language of mystery is foreign and frightening to most of us. Continue reading
If I were stranded on a desert island, I’d need these five short-story collections to keep me company:
- No One Belongs Here More Than You, Miranda July
- Self-Help, Lorrie Moore
- The Best American Short Stories: 1991, Alice Adams, ed.
- Interpreter of Maladies, Jhumpa Lahiri
- Nine Stories, J. D. Salinger
Allow me to begin by offering up something that may be obvious: a novel is a story but a story isn’t necessarily a novel. Voltaire (or somebody) is supposed to have written to a friend, “Forgive the long letter; I didn’t have time to write a short one.” The compression of a short story requires discipline, patience, and above all time. What you decide to leave out is often so much more important than what you keep. Continue reading
If I were stranded on a desert island, I’d need these five poetry collections to keep me company:
- Human Wishes by Robert Hass
- Song by Brigit Pegeen Kelly
- Ariel: The Restored Edition by Sylvia Plath
- Elegy by Larry Levis
- Corinna A-maying the Apocalypse by Darcie Dennigan
I believe there are pretty much two kinds of poems: Poems That Make Sense and Poems That Don’t Make Sense. That seems like a value judgment, but it’s not. Not really. The former kind of poem is the linear, logical kind most of us learned about in school. Often it’s narrative. Often it has a clear “point” to make: Something there is that doesn’t love a wall. It tends to be regular in all (or most) of the ways a poem can be regular.
The latter kind of poem—a Poem That Doesn’t Make Sense—is a different animal altogether. It is interested mainly in intuitive leaps, in tone, atmosphere, “vibe.” It is necessarily irregular. Syncopated.
I like both kinds of poems. I tend to write the latter. Continue reading
My rating: 4 of 5 stars. On one level, this is a book about how humans think: which of our multiple intelligences are becoming more valuable, which we’re ceding to machines. Here’s Brynjolfsson in an interview: “Historically, education in America has focused on getting people to follow instructions, sitting in rows and listening to what the teacher explains….Simply following instructions is something that software is pretty good at…that’s not where you want to be competing.” Machines aren’t better thinkers. They’re better at knowing and following the rules. This book argues we need to break rules better by leveraging our peculiar capacity for effort, experimentation, embracing the unknown.
(1) Re-reading Robert Hass’s Human Wishes from start-to-finish. | (2) How a good book, of any kind, changes with you. Over time. | (3) Having art assignments. | (4) A major upswing in the sensory nature of my dreams. I can’t remember when I’ve tasted and smelled so much, so intensely, in that Otherworld. It could be because of Food Network, but I think it’s because I’ve actually been pretty good about meditating lately. I’d like it to be that, anyway. | (5) This particular line from Human Wishes, in a poem called “Spring Rain” — “…the unstated theme was the blessedness of gathering and the blessing of dispersal— // it made you glad for beauty like that, casual and intense, lasting as long as the poppies last.” | (6) Gathering. | (7) Dispersal. | (8) A quiet weekend. Quiet except for… (9) …the sawing sounds I will be producing later, ostensibly to do some large-scale pruning of the crape myrtle in front of my house, but really I’ll be gathering raw material for #3 above. | (10) Thomas Merton’s When the Trees Say Nothing. | (11) The Practice Retreat I’m planning in Gorham’s Bluff this summer. | (12) Tidying up. | (13) Ham. Okay? Ham. On a nice, crusty roll. With swiss cheese. | (14) When an old friend asks for a book recommendation and I get it right. | (15) Green ink. | (16) Walking meditation. | (17) Speaking of ink and Human Wishes and changing: my handwriting now, but not then. First of all: I hate writing in books now but, for some reason, in college, I did it. So there’s my quavering, loopy hand in the Hass book, documenting quavering, loopy ideas I don’t agree with anymore. They’re not wrong, these ideas. It’s fine for somebody else to think them. It’s also funny, odd, enlightening when that somebody else is (was?) me. | (18) Portlandia. Especially… | (19) Jeff Goldblum cameos. | (20) A string of sunny days. | (21) My old car. Thank you, car. | (22) Getting to know my parents better, posthumously. Which is to say… (23) …the breadcrumb trails of Experience and deoxyribonucleic acid. | (24) The Nerd Herd. Still crazy, after all these years. | (25) Feeling smart and clueless all at the same time. | (26) Feeling exceptional and ordinary at the same time. Which is to say… (27) …feeling a little less mutual exclusivity (e.g., gathering AND dispersal, casual AND intense) and therefore… (28) …feeling a little less like a hypocrite. | (29) Kam Chancellor. | (30) The new drop ceiling in the lecture hall at the school where I teach.
(1) My sisters and their husbands. | (2) My niece. | (3) My nephew. | (4) Leonardo Bechara, the dog. (Something like my nephew once removed?) His expressive eyes especially. | (5) Fifi’s hummus. | (6) Homemade hummus: the maiden voyage. It’s not Fifi’s. But it’s inspired by Fifi, and that makes it better than most. | (8) How many vests I have. Now. | (9) How many scarves I have. Now. | (10) Dawn. | (11) Ramak. | (12) Unexpected embarrassment of riches: when people you have taught want to eat a meal with you. | (13) Having taught people. | (14) Which is to say: the saving graces of this strange life. | (15) How beautiful a man Bob Marley was. I’m talking about facial structure here. Just totally superficial. My gosh. (Peter Tosh!) | (16) Which is to say: Marley. The documentary. | (17) Inside Llewyn Davis. | (18) True Detective. Which is really about men and women, though I’m not sure the creators are 100% in on the joke. I think they are 78% in on it. | (19) The other 22%. | (20) Airships by Barry Hannah. | (21) Televised images of the San Gabriel mountains. On New Year’s Day. Time-honored. | (22) Impromptu faux paella. | (23) Gorham’s Bluff, Alabama. | (24) Wild Strawberries. | (25) Macerated blackberries. | (26) Bibi Andersson. Still. | (27) Frozen shrimp. The protein least degraded by freezing. | (28) A real nap. | (29) Mystery. | (30) Feeling, for no reason I can figure, that I’m playing with house money.