Geoffrey Nutter's The Black Dog
Monday, October 24, 2005

Geoffrey Nutter's Water's Leaves and Other Poems

I'm a little standoffish around writers who mix up poetry and philosophy. On one hand, I have a natural prejudice against intellectuals. Why? I understand it's sort of a weakness. It will suffice to say that intellectuals seem to break things in moments of bloodless inspiration and aren't particularly interested in putting them back together again. Look what the think-tanks have done in Iraq. Now think what they could do, and have done, with poetry, whose Republican Guard consists pretty much of Ted Kooser and Billy Collins.

Now, maybe some of you who are inclined to agree with me will also agree that I'm simplifying things. I have to grant you that one. I'll work on it.

In the meantime, these mix-ups between poetry and philosophy confuse what is useful with what is necessarily useless. Why not say that good poetry is good only when it is politically engaged, or improves civic virtue, or helps you grieve for the dead, or gives you the warm fuzzies? Perhaps someday they'll come up with a book of poetry which doubles as a spare tire in case of emergencies. I'm fed up with anyone who can find the use in anything--anything at all--that doesn't have a clearly labeled button. Otherwise our lives, too, may require a proof of worth. Two new rules, then, (subject to revision): anything worthwhile is inanimate and earns a wage; anything livable is not and will not. Jobs and tirejacks and The New York Times in the first camp, lovers and comedians and dogs in the second. That polarity will stick, unless we make an exception for ice cream and Spiderman and poetry, each of which occupy some murky middle ground between bald ambitious ingenuity and total frivolity beyond the kin of an honest witness and beyond the patience of mere wagearners.

So I like Geoffrey Nutter, but not because he's a philosophical poet, or because he falls squarely in the tradition of poets who could, say, make George Santayana palatable. He poses the question of "what is half-seen and half-created" in the mind of the interpreter at least as well as anyone who's work I've read lately. "How much of what we call 'seeing' is actually believing?" he says, and that sort of business. That question is always interestingly asked by a good poet, when it is asked, and it is never answered except in a procession of things seen in rare subjective lights. Someone meets a fact and writes it down and probably changes the fact in writing it. Which is fun, and possibly lazy and indolent, too, in a way that philosophy is not. It produces effects unique to poetry.

For instance, the effect is often one of crazy synaesthesia, as in one of my favorite poems in the collection, "The Black Dog": "I saw a black dog come out of a pond/ and break into a million light-tipped crystals// as he shook the water from his fur./ I was Distorted Man--distorted by what/ I did not know." In a touching act of empathy the speaker of the poem blurs and breaks apart like the dog for a while, and new figures move into the frame. It's frightening and dizzying and you have to appreciate the sacrifice. Yet in the last line, we're rewarded with something thumpingly nice: "The black/ dog came and licked my hand." It's a good thing to reward selflessness in this way, though naysayers may say it ends on a too-familiar and conclusive note. To which I say, we should all be rewarded for being so nice to black dogs as to fractalize with them into frightening shards of surreal otherness.

Yet there's a lot of letting things be in his poetry, too, a sort of watching without interrogating, and this is refreshing. For instance, there's the poem "Titan Cement," which begins, "Everyone loves Titan Cement" and ends "Past the sad brick factory/ and black cisterns, Titan Cement/is coming!" and whose center contains not much more than a thick core of Titan Cement and an ode to its "built-ness" and rough grey blank usefulness, baffling and beautiful to the author. Later he takes us skiing (there is a lot of cold weather in these poems) and it becomes this: "The curvature of the world/ is charged with prescience;/ so that you might vanish/ off the slopes of a snow-freighted/ mountain..." It's plain personification but it works.

Of course, there's something here for the interrogators, too. "The Definition of a Swan," sounds like it is, to such a degree that it offers this helpful definitional tidbit: "To 'swan' is to wander aimlessly." Swan-dives, long necks, and Cygnus are all cataloged and filed away in the poem. As an interrogator, Geoffrey is exhaustive. To ask what good it is sort of begs the question what good are swans. And that's as far as I want to go with it. It was a good time while it lasted. It beats working.

If you live in Chicago and want to meet him and see him read this stuff you'll want to check this out. If you live in New York and want to buy the book or just come to yell at me and stuff you should come to St. Mark's Bookshop.

posted by Greg Purcell @ 11:25 AM, ,  


A History of New York
Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Washington Irving's Deitrich Knickerbocker's A History of New York


A lot of people were out buying books on a Monday night. A good thing, really, and a sign that business is picking up at the bookstore, since this was a pretty dismal summer, traffic-wise. Yet when I left my feet were sore and my back felt like a burst tin can.

At Union Square, the men in hard blue outfits were spraying down the subway stairs. They had most of the entrances blocked. The crowd was pretty thick at the first entrance I tried, one of those stray entrances with ceiling-high turnstyles like the mouths of upturned whales.

It was past midnight, and my monthly metrocard had expired. Tired, I hauled myself back up the stairs and towards the gazeboed front entrance.

At the card machine, a kid with some sort of asbestos-type substance piling out of Platonic stabwounds in his winter jacket whisked in front of me and started pushing buttons, a look of zoned concentration on his face. I sidled over to the next machine and started. There were a forest of touch screen buttons to burrow through: Yes I would like to Start Purchase. Yes I want a New Card. Yes I want an Unlimited Pass. Yes I want the 30-Day Pass. At "30-Day Pass" a voice pipped behind me. It belonged to a girl wearing a hat of such ostentatious hip-hoppery it could have only belonged to a blonde girl with messy hair, which it did. She stood at about my chest, and her pretty moony face was pocked with acne.

"If you need a card," she began, "I can sell you one because I'm going upstate tomorrow for this job I just got and I haven't even used it yet we could say fifty dollars." Mr. Jacket stood knowledgeably behind her, watching her talk.

I've been on a budget lately. I won't tell you how much except to say it's small. I'm often running overbudget and have to cool things down the next week. This week was one of those. I had just been doing the math in my head and getting depressed. I was tired. And the cards cost 76 dollars, a fortune. It's the only reason I listened to this girl before telling her I wasn't interested. She insisted.

"No really here watch I can put it through the reader," she said. I watched. The squat little metallic Card Value Reader wore a wig of yellow-blue Metro Cards cascading to the floor, all used. When the girl swiped her card it said only UNUSED and nothing else.

"That doesn't tell me anything," I said.

"Wait watch it doesn't register until you swipe it the first time check this out," she said.

She and The Jacket moved over to the turnstile and she, in control, swiped the card. The Jacket watched the Go sign light up green, and then looked at me. In the cold light of the subway entrance he looked literally olive skinned--sickly--as if a plug of pimento should have been visible on his forehead.

"Check that out," he said.

A blonde skateboard kid, skateboard in hand, was suddenly there. He smiled and nodded at me. "Yeah," he said. I was involved in a process incorporating three machines and three teenagers, and all six of them seemed to be agreeing with each other.

She swiped the card again and this time the readout said MONTHLY PASS EXPIRES 11/16/05: exactly one month from now. The girl said some words that seemed to correspond with what the readout said. Somehow this depressed me, because I knew I was going to buy the thing anyway. My brain was firmly clicked into the groove of the process and sliding down without a hitch.

"Fifty dollars, did you say?" I asked. All three of them physically jerked up as if hearing some joyous trumpet blast from outer space.

"Fifty bucks that's right," she said. "That's right all right thanks a lot." I pulled out forty dollars from next week's projected budget, tucked deeply into a back recess of my wallet and combined it with the ten dollars I had remaining for this week. The girl watched my fingers, happy and impatient at this unexpectedly complicated and somewhat sad process. My brain rolled down the groove.

Things were exchanged. I had a metrocard in my hand.

The Skateboard kid thanked me first, for some reason. Then the girl. The Jacket said, "I got it for you." He was standing next to the turnstyle where we had swiped the card, had been standing there the whole time, protecting it for me. The green light still said go.

They all looked like authentic junkies. My brain hitched in the groove, then slid forward again. I followed it towards the turnstyle. The Jacket looked eager, like he wanted to physically push me through. "You know about the 18 minute rule, right?" he asked helpfully. I nodded. Eighteen minutes was the time you had to wait upon swiping your 30-Day unlimited pass before it could be used again.

So, what, don't bother checking the pass for another 20 minutes, is that it?

"Thanks!" said the girl.

And I was through the turnstyle. My brain skittered out of the groove and came to a halt, as if on cue. I remembered all the dead cards laying around the Card Value Reader where I gave her my money. They pulled the switcheroo on me. They were quick, these kids. They were already gone. I could hear them giggling up the stairs on the other side of the turnstyle. I stared up at the ceiling. I was almost proud of myself for being such a perfect mark. It would have been funny if I had the money to spare.

My train pulled up. I rushed to meet it, sat down, tucked the card into my wallet, and pulled out my copy of A History of New York. I started reading Chapter 2:

"Having thus briefly introduced my reader to the world, and given him some idea of its form and situation, he will naturally be curious to know from whence it came, and how it was created."

The world fizzed around me like redpop. Letters and faces burst before my eyes. God! What an idiot! How could I have let it happen?

"And now I give my readers fair warning, that I am about to plunge into a chapter or two, into as complete a labyrinth as ever historian was perplexed withal..."

Here was the thing about it, really: I was just like the blubbery sad-eyed thing that gets preyed on in a Mamet script. There are two types of people in this world and only one of them eats dinner. There are savvy, charming teenaged thugs with fifty bucks in their pockets and 32-year-old poets who work in bookstores who don't have fifty fucking bucks in their pockets.

"Of the creation of the world, we have a thousand contradictory accounts..."

If I had those kids here right now I'd bash them! God! No! Throw them around like kitchen towels in a dryer! Jerks! I'd breathe fire right into their pustulent little faces and watch their bright little brains snap!

I snapped the book shut and pulled the worthless card out of my wallet. I stared at it for signs of war and famine the rest of the long trip home.

At Astoria Boulevard I still had it in my hand. I walked over to the trash but couldn't help stopping by the card value reader on the way. I swiped the card.

It said MONTHLY PASS EXPIRES 11/16/05.

posted by Greg Purcell @ 1:29 AM, ,  


Marcus Vs. Franzen
Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Franzen versus Marcus

Oh, hi Ben. Hi John. Welcome to our party. I'm glad to see you came together. I heard you guys weren't getting along.

Oh, you're still not? That's cool, I guess. Let me take your coats.

No, we didn't send out invitations, so none required.

And you'd prefer to be called Jonathan. Sure, sorry.

Well, I'm glad you came--you're both a little late. Right now the theme is still Postmodernism but over in the corner there are a few people starting to play Earnestness. Whoa, hey, Ben, don't get so excited. Okay, Postmodernism in that room, though everyone's a little wasted, so be careful.

No, Ben, I don't want my Wernicke's area fluffed. But maybe someone at the party does. Go look around.

--AND--

So, whatsamatter John...I mean, Jonathan? Don't you feel like partying? You look a little depressed.

Hollywood? X-Boxes? Rappers? Well, the directors and rappers are all hanging out together in the VIP lounge. It's sort of hard to get in there, but then again the drinks are really expensive. If you stand outside the door and complain a lot I'm sure they'll eventually let you in.

You don't care about them anyway, huh?

Yeah, I don't know. I suppose they are kind of assholes. You feel like dancing?

Yeah, they dance in there. They do the hustle, mostly, because, you know, their dances are choreographed, and it takes them forever to choreograph a new dance.

No, they just sort of do the hustle a lot. Sometimes they do the Charleston.

I'm sure you can, Jonathan. Hey, you want some chips? Or, hey--I think I see some readers over there that wanna dance with you. What do you think, you wanna dance?

Well, I haven't talked to them, so I can't say whether they're "relevant" or not. Listen, I'm going to go over there for a while, okay?

--LATER--

What's that, Ben?

Okay, I'll go talk to him. Hey, listen, Ben, you may want to lay off the ether, huh?

Well, if you're having fun. Just don't hurt anyone, all right?

Ben! Be careful with that! It's an antique!

--AND--

Jonathan, we need to talk.

Jonathan, come out of the bathroom and talk to me.

That's better. Listen, you know you can't just kick people out of the party.

I don't care if you think Ben is totally embarrassing you. Look at him. He's having fun. The people around him are having fun. So what's the problem?

Oh, come on...

Well, if you want to fight, you can fight. We do have a gym. But...

Well, it gets kind of nasty because most people don't really, you know, and I'm not necessarily saying this about you, Jonathan, but most people who come to the party these days...don't exactly know how to fight.

I'm not saying you. I'm not saying that. It's just, seeing a couple of little guys pound on each other is sort of depressing. It really clears the party out, you know?

Well, that's different. Alexander Pope and Jonathan Swift were real bruisers. They were formal about it, you know? They studied under Juvenal, practically. It was fun to watch them fight.

But not you, no.

Jonathan, come on. You're a good dancer, really. Why don't you go dance?

Well, if you want everyone to do the Charleston you're going to have to ask them to do the Charleston.

Well, I don't think they're all irrelevant.

Okay. If you feel like it, you know where the dance floor is.

--LATER--

Having fun, Jonathan?

Why not?

Well, I'll admit that the dance floor is a little crowded, sure.

That's not the way the dance riser works, Jonathan. We can't just let you use it exclusively.

The rule is, if people start clapping for you, then you jump up on the dance riser and do a little dance, that's all. If they boo, you get off.

Well, okay, the drunk guy on the riser with the hula skirt and the lampshade on his head is pretty corny, I'll admit it. Who is that, Damien Hirst? JT Leroy? Tom Clancy? I can't see from here, but look, people are having a blast.

No, we're not going to build a dance riser just for you.

Why don't you go dance near the dance riser and see if people clap for you? They recognize you, so they're sure to start clapping.

Maybe they are a bunch of brainwashed cows, Jonathan. Maybe. But those are the rules.

Okay, just mope outside of the VIP room, then. Whatever.

--AND--

Hey, Ben. Still having fun?

What's that you're working on?

That's okay, it doesn't have to be finished.

Let's see here, "Rules for the Party." Oh Ben.

Okay, I'll read it. But really...

Okay, fine. "First rule: the party must be fun." Okay. I'll agree with that. Let's see, here. "Second rule: Jonathan Franzen is a big fucking pill." Ben, now...

Fine. Stop crying. Here, have a tissue. Okay. "Third rule: Jonathan Franzen totally sucks and should be kicked out of the party FOR LIFE and he should NEVER COME BACK because he's a JERK!" Ben, do you want me to go talk to Jonathan?

Okay, I'll go do that. Hey, look. I think the dance riser might be opening up again. You want to dance, Ben?

Okay, go.

--SO--

Jonathan, have you been picking on Ben again?

Fine, it's within your rights to yell in the middle of the dance floor whatever you want, or to start slam dancing, or whatever. You can even push people off the dance riser, if you want, as long as people don't start booing you. But look, since you pushed Ben off the riser, everyone's starting to leave the party.

Fine. I know the rules, too. And I know they're not booing, Jonathan. They're not even bothering to boo. See them leave?

Fine, sure, yeah. It's all yours. Go ahead and dance on the fucking thing.

I hate to say this, but you're making our party totally uncool. You're turning it into a party for adolescent nerds.

Huh, what's that? Here, get down off the riser and talk to me.

Say again?

Okay. "Serious social engagement" is work talk. It's what we do when we vote and write our congressmen and feed ourselves or learn about the world. This is a party, Jonathan, where we come to talk about work or just blow off steam. What you're doing is not "serious social engagement." What you're doing is called "ruining the party." What you're doing is called "pushing people and then hiding in the bathroom." For about two hundred years novelists have been coming into our party and acting this way and calling people irrelevant and stuff. And then you invite journalists in. It's boring. People keep leaving the party.

Yeah, I know that the poets keep inviting academics in. The devour all the coctail weenies and never drink. But we have to work on one problem at a time.

No, let me tell you something. James Joyce did not ruin the party. He was a good dancer--he just danced in the corner of the room and people watched. He got to use the dance riser maybe a couple of times and it was great. That's all he wanted. Upton Sinclair was the one who started chasing people around and pushing them. And he couldn't dance at all.

Yeah, I know it's not all your fault. I've been talking to Tom Wolfe, too.

No, you don't have to leave.

Really, just calm down.

What are you doing for work these days, anyway?

So you just party all day at home, is that it?

Well, why don't you find some work to do, and then maybe you can come by and you and Ben and all of us can start having some fun again, okay?

The party's gonna be here one way or another.

Okay. Goodnight, Jonathan.

Don't worry about Ben. I'll let him sleep it off here.

posted by Greg Purcell @ 11:22 AM, ,