Now that it’s summer, we know what you’re thinking: “Finally! No more school to interfere with my drinking!” But let’s be honest. School didn’t make much of a dent in that drinking habit of yours. What school’s really been interfering with is your thinking.
The New Era of Hope demands that we Ask More of ourselves this summer. In this spirit of Hope, Change and Diet Pepsi, we have decided to start a literary endeavor. We realized (after participating in a most excellent collaborative Choose Your Own Adventure project) that we need more projects, we need more adventure, and we anti-social writers certainly need more collaboration.
We want YOU to embark with us on this literary odyssey, this Oregon Trail of Oratory. Let’s circle the wagons, people! Let’s march onward, stake new terrain and call it whatever we want! Let’s run this fucking metaphor into the ground!
The theme of our inaugural issue? Manifesto Destiny.
Let’s think long and hard and deep [1] about the world we always thought we should be living in. Don’t wait for law students and hipsters [2] to define the zeitgeist of the Obama era. Write that manifesto you always assumed would write itself. Manifest, finally, the ideas, the dreams, the visions that drove us to write in the first place. Answer (if not once and for all, at least once and for now) why we do this to ourselves and what we want to say through all of our blood, sweat, and occupational stress injuries.
Why are we here and what do we want to do about it? What did you imagine for yourself when you were 17, before you realized you were too cool to air-quotes “believe” in things? Surely it didn’t include sitting in cubicles and stuffing cash into the couch cushions of what would turn out to be an imaginary 401(k). What, in your wildest moments, do you believe is possible? Let us do all that is possible to remember all that is possible!
Don’t worry. This doesn’t have to be a giant feat-of-strength undertaking. We’re only talking about everything, including the impossibility of talking about everything. But to do so, we require input from everyone. It’s not that we’re lazy, it’s just that we have an honest and humble understanding of our ontological and epistemological predicament [3]. We must put our proverbial heads together to forge one huge reminder of all we can do if we just, oh, I don’t know, do it.
We know, we know. Finishing things is hard. Do you know how long it took us to write this email? [4] But finishing doesn’t have to be hard if we get over ourselves a little bit. Remember how excited we got about reading each other’s Choose Your Own Adventure stories, how cool it was to end up with a perfect little hilarious book of our friends’ work? That was so easy!
Our most important readers are always each other. We don’t have to wait for the New Yorker to notice or for our glorious futures to arrive before shouting our thoughts, however half-baked and dangerous they may seem. We don’t have to wait until we’ve edited the three novels sitting in our desk drawer. We will no longer settle for creating works So Postmodern that they do not Actually Exist [5].
Each of you has been granted two pages to fill with “brilliant, mordant and witty observations about American life,” or “hilarious satire of cultural vacuity,” or “weirdly conceived sketches of urban hipsters,” [6] or any combination of text, image or pop-up storytelling you want the world to be/hold. Be ridiculous. Be emphatic. We are at the border between now and the future. What do you have to declare?
You are here. The Infinite (tm) is just over that next ridge. Walk 20 paces and make a left at the sign. Breathe deeply. Smile. Write something. Then send it to us! It’s time to RSVP for the Summer of Everything! [7]
Here’s to Revolution, The Universe and Everything Else,
Chris and Sarah
[Endnotes]
1. No, not about that.
2. Okay, other hipsters.
3. See our drunken conversation until 4 AM the other night. Oh wait, you weren’t there for that.
4. Too long. Longer even than it’s taking you to read it.
5. See also Bigfoot and the Great American Novel.
6. Who said that?
7. Oh yeah, please do RSVP (ASAP and other acronyms) to us as well. Let us know if you plan to send something along. We’re collecting all your little scraps of everything by Wednesday, July 1. That’s just four short weeks from yesterday, so let’s get manifesting!
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Happy Birthday Truong!
The first time I met Truong he offered me a job,
which goes to show what the standards are
for TA’s at San Francisco State. Thirty seconds,
no questions asked, good luck kid. But I am
very thankful for that opportunity to fight
with unbalanced undergraduates every week,
if only to find out what teaching is all about.
It turns out to be about slowly losing your mind
in six month intervals. Over & over. Forever.
I think we did pretty good that first semester. I only
showed up drunk once, and that was the last
day of class, which barely even counts at all.
I also have to thank Truong for introducing me
to my girlfriend, Sarah. And by “introducing,” I mean
he came over & said, “Watch out for this guy,
he’s trouble. Just look at his hair!” He was wearing
a coon-skin cap at the time, so I don’t know how
seriously she could take took him, but part
of me suspects she’s still not quite over that.
But mostly I think of Truong as ringleader of a circus.
The rest of us work as acrobats & clowns, riding on
elephants and on the rest of the creative writing dept.
faculty, driving them mad with the idea we think
their classes are kind of a joke, which, compared
to the serious fun he manages to have in his, they are.
You all know the players in this big crazy tent
because you are them. An incomplete list includes:
Rick chasing homeless guys down the road,
in a clown suit, on skates, because he thought
they hit Vinh. Vinh burning incredible piles
of weed from his secret garden in Golden Gate Park,
where he picks tomatoes to make Clamato,
which Britta drinks while balancing on a beach ball
& juggling knives in the kitchen, trying not
to drop them on Olive the Super Dog, wrapped
in a pink bandanna she stole from Macy’s lingerie dept.
Ali driving her 20th Volkswagen bus to New Hampshire,
only to turn around & return, unload buckets
of east coast apple seeds & do cartwheels down Haight St.
to the tunes of her very own songs. Dustin taming tigers
in a cage made from dictionary pages, talking
shit to the pile of talking shit he found in Paradise.
Carolyn conducting an orchestral chorus, singing
the Queef poem to hundreds of kindergartners,
their parents trampling over each other to the exit.
Anvhu…Well, Anvhu is on a boat somewhere
after breaking his hand training to box Francois
& couldn’t be reached for comment. Most importantly,
Truong sits at the center of all this, mostly calm,
watching to make sure no one gets (too badly) hurt
falling from the flying trapeze. This is what he teaches
each day by example. How to be an artist, poet,
teacher, friend, mentor, guide. How to live this life
& not just talk about living it someday. How to
do all this without selling out or getting boring.
How to get serious enough to do all he’s done,
but not so serious he forgot why he started performing
his art in the first place. How to make all this happen
for himself &, luckily, for all the rest of us.
Truong is one of the first people I met in San Francisco.
And I am more at home in San Francisco because of Truong
& this circus he was brilliant and brave enough to create.
In other words, I’m Truong Tran, bitches! Let’s celebrate.
which goes to show what the standards are
for TA’s at San Francisco State. Thirty seconds,
no questions asked, good luck kid. But I am
very thankful for that opportunity to fight
with unbalanced undergraduates every week,
if only to find out what teaching is all about.
It turns out to be about slowly losing your mind
in six month intervals. Over & over. Forever.
I think we did pretty good that first semester. I only
showed up drunk once, and that was the last
day of class, which barely even counts at all.
I also have to thank Truong for introducing me
to my girlfriend, Sarah. And by “introducing,” I mean
he came over & said, “Watch out for this guy,
he’s trouble. Just look at his hair!” He was wearing
a coon-skin cap at the time, so I don’t know how
seriously she could take took him, but part
of me suspects she’s still not quite over that.
But mostly I think of Truong as ringleader of a circus.
The rest of us work as acrobats & clowns, riding on
elephants and on the rest of the creative writing dept.
faculty, driving them mad with the idea we think
their classes are kind of a joke, which, compared
to the serious fun he manages to have in his, they are.
You all know the players in this big crazy tent
because you are them. An incomplete list includes:
Rick chasing homeless guys down the road,
in a clown suit, on skates, because he thought
they hit Vinh. Vinh burning incredible piles
of weed from his secret garden in Golden Gate Park,
where he picks tomatoes to make Clamato,
which Britta drinks while balancing on a beach ball
& juggling knives in the kitchen, trying not
to drop them on Olive the Super Dog, wrapped
in a pink bandanna she stole from Macy’s lingerie dept.
Ali driving her 20th Volkswagen bus to New Hampshire,
only to turn around & return, unload buckets
of east coast apple seeds & do cartwheels down Haight St.
to the tunes of her very own songs. Dustin taming tigers
in a cage made from dictionary pages, talking
shit to the pile of talking shit he found in Paradise.
Carolyn conducting an orchestral chorus, singing
the Queef poem to hundreds of kindergartners,
their parents trampling over each other to the exit.
Anvhu…Well, Anvhu is on a boat somewhere
after breaking his hand training to box Francois
& couldn’t be reached for comment. Most importantly,
Truong sits at the center of all this, mostly calm,
watching to make sure no one gets (too badly) hurt
falling from the flying trapeze. This is what he teaches
each day by example. How to be an artist, poet,
teacher, friend, mentor, guide. How to live this life
& not just talk about living it someday. How to
do all this without selling out or getting boring.
How to get serious enough to do all he’s done,
but not so serious he forgot why he started performing
his art in the first place. How to make all this happen
for himself &, luckily, for all the rest of us.
Truong is one of the first people I met in San Francisco.
And I am more at home in San Francisco because of Truong
& this circus he was brilliant and brave enough to create.
In other words, I’m Truong Tran, bitches! Let’s celebrate.
Fuck Society, Man
Society is just an abstraction
invented by English graduate students
to disrupt family events during holidays.
As in, “I’m not gonna sell
my soul to Citibank
just because SOCIETY tells me to.”
As in, “I am using
my overpriced education not just to incur
debts I can never pay, but also to pretend
this poem has something to do
with politics and not just
my weird subconscious desire
to remain 25 forever.”
This guy I knew once, when I was
in college, had a theory
that everyone went through a phase
of hating their parents. But he also used to drink
NyQuil straight from the bottle
during philosophy exams, so he might be
what we like to refer to
as an “unreliable narrator.”
Speaking of which, I have changed my name
to Connor Oberst. In fact, I am
also that postmodern author he sings about
or, rather, I sing about in that song. I do not exist.
I do however know a lot
about mythology. Certain symbols & tropes
cut universally across all known human cultures.
When I think about this, I dream
about writing the ultimate poem
& starting a new religion. This is,
of course, not
the ultimate poem. Though I do expect it will
get hipster girls to fall in love with me, now
that I’ve got a much more emo-sounding name.
Things get way less interesting
when you lay them out like that, I know,
but I’m not exactly quivering
with fear from offending the MFA mafia.
For god’s sake, one of my teachers translated
“Cosa Nostra” as “tennis elbow”
in a recent magazine no one read,
which shows you the concerns
& general ethical commitment
of tenure-track faculty across the nation.
Yet I also dream of being
one such professor. I mean,
the vacations are just ridiculous.
invented by English graduate students
to disrupt family events during holidays.
As in, “I’m not gonna sell
my soul to Citibank
just because SOCIETY tells me to.”
As in, “I am using
my overpriced education not just to incur
debts I can never pay, but also to pretend
this poem has something to do
with politics and not just
my weird subconscious desire
to remain 25 forever.”
This guy I knew once, when I was
in college, had a theory
that everyone went through a phase
of hating their parents. But he also used to drink
NyQuil straight from the bottle
during philosophy exams, so he might be
what we like to refer to
as an “unreliable narrator.”
Speaking of which, I have changed my name
to Connor Oberst. In fact, I am
also that postmodern author he sings about
or, rather, I sing about in that song. I do not exist.
I do however know a lot
about mythology. Certain symbols & tropes
cut universally across all known human cultures.
When I think about this, I dream
about writing the ultimate poem
& starting a new religion. This is,
of course, not
the ultimate poem. Though I do expect it will
get hipster girls to fall in love with me, now
that I’ve got a much more emo-sounding name.
Things get way less interesting
when you lay them out like that, I know,
but I’m not exactly quivering
with fear from offending the MFA mafia.
For god’s sake, one of my teachers translated
“Cosa Nostra” as “tennis elbow”
in a recent magazine no one read,
which shows you the concerns
& general ethical commitment
of tenure-track faculty across the nation.
Yet I also dream of being
one such professor. I mean,
the vacations are just ridiculous.
A Political Poem
Politics express the country’s collective
psychic disorders. Cable news simply broadcasts
the dreams of unusually powerful senators,
certainly not what the Greeks imagined
when they elected the first openly gay mayor
of Athens, before Socrates began bothering everyone
& people crept back in the closet. No one
remembers anymore. The records burned up
when the original library caught fire, in Alexandria,
at which point we lost all our knowledge
about the approaching centuries. So we make it all up,
again. Across the several dimensions, a mythic gravity
stays constant. I read this in a magazine
two days after staying up all night watching the war
not happen on commercial-free coverage on CNN.
We all were afraid to turn away, not least
the Iraqis searching the tube for clues
or omens, you might call them, falling out of the sky
& into the dawn of the future. Boom.
It is always the desert where these things occur.
The western fantasy acted out, unconsensually,
on a soundstage in the far east. Farther east
than the valley, where Gregory Peck
takes charge in a town held back by lack of water,
where settlers outside Jerusalem hack down olive trees,
plow roots into salted ground, land & destiny
stolen from somebody’s grandfather. No one remembers
his name either, though it is written on the deed
locked up in the vault of a court
that no longer exists. After the return flight home,
a line of flag-draped coffins parades down Main Street
in the Magic Kingdom, to a marching rhythm
beat out on the scalps of the Washington Redskins.
We use these myths to sell Chevrolet trucks
at halftime of Super Bowl 357. Ready, aim, fire
all the immigrant workers who make freedom,
in a very large factory, more free
than it would’ve been otherwise. I bought mine
at a garage sale, half-price. I wear it pinned to my chest,
my freedom, while I sit on the couch. I pore over
photographs of tortured prisoners, scrutinize
the anatomies of dreams deferred. They all look
the same: body parts disassembled,
dissembled from the mouths of the president’s men.
Arms & legs puked through bright shiny teeth.
Fingernails collected, put in a book like stamps,
to be used as tools in a primitive fight
against a shadow attacker at high noon.
In the dead of the night, she conjures
this pleasure again, licking your impotent skin
with fingertips. Hair on your arm a mess of tentacles
sexing the air, pressed against the edge
of whatever separates this heat from the world
it wants to eat alive, consume
the blue blue sky. His blue blue eyes,
a whip-sharp piercing bondage blue, taste
like light on the surface of water, a lake
or ocean heaving in the moon’s orgiastic pull.
Its circular orbit balanced, somewhere, by giant
bowling balls so we all stay suspended
in this disbelief in the life we’ve imagined, exactly
how a hummingbird exerts such perfect control,
spins its own gravity, a certain, sure-
footed grip on the air stood still, its wings
a globe in motion, a world
worlding itself whole.
psychic disorders. Cable news simply broadcasts
the dreams of unusually powerful senators,
certainly not what the Greeks imagined
when they elected the first openly gay mayor
of Athens, before Socrates began bothering everyone
& people crept back in the closet. No one
remembers anymore. The records burned up
when the original library caught fire, in Alexandria,
at which point we lost all our knowledge
about the approaching centuries. So we make it all up,
again. Across the several dimensions, a mythic gravity
stays constant. I read this in a magazine
two days after staying up all night watching the war
not happen on commercial-free coverage on CNN.
We all were afraid to turn away, not least
the Iraqis searching the tube for clues
or omens, you might call them, falling out of the sky
& into the dawn of the future. Boom.
It is always the desert where these things occur.
The western fantasy acted out, unconsensually,
on a soundstage in the far east. Farther east
than the valley, where Gregory Peck
takes charge in a town held back by lack of water,
where settlers outside Jerusalem hack down olive trees,
plow roots into salted ground, land & destiny
stolen from somebody’s grandfather. No one remembers
his name either, though it is written on the deed
locked up in the vault of a court
that no longer exists. After the return flight home,
a line of flag-draped coffins parades down Main Street
in the Magic Kingdom, to a marching rhythm
beat out on the scalps of the Washington Redskins.
We use these myths to sell Chevrolet trucks
at halftime of Super Bowl 357. Ready, aim, fire
all the immigrant workers who make freedom,
in a very large factory, more free
than it would’ve been otherwise. I bought mine
at a garage sale, half-price. I wear it pinned to my chest,
my freedom, while I sit on the couch. I pore over
photographs of tortured prisoners, scrutinize
the anatomies of dreams deferred. They all look
the same: body parts disassembled,
dissembled from the mouths of the president’s men.
Arms & legs puked through bright shiny teeth.
Fingernails collected, put in a book like stamps,
to be used as tools in a primitive fight
against a shadow attacker at high noon.
In the dead of the night, she conjures
this pleasure again, licking your impotent skin
with fingertips. Hair on your arm a mess of tentacles
sexing the air, pressed against the edge
of whatever separates this heat from the world
it wants to eat alive, consume
the blue blue sky. His blue blue eyes,
a whip-sharp piercing bondage blue, taste
like light on the surface of water, a lake
or ocean heaving in the moon’s orgiastic pull.
Its circular orbit balanced, somewhere, by giant
bowling balls so we all stay suspended
in this disbelief in the life we’ve imagined, exactly
how a hummingbird exerts such perfect control,
spins its own gravity, a certain, sure-
footed grip on the air stood still, its wings
a globe in motion, a world
worlding itself whole.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Why You'd Want To Live Here
nixa, missouri
everyone here was born somewhere
else, in a different country,
even if that place was named
the same as this one. it is changed
now. the horizon much more crowded
than you last remember. the suburbs
huddle nearer each year. bunch
in overplanted crops that bear diminishing
yields. the future is shrinking. salt ruins
more soil out by the coasts every day.
I approach the town I grew up in
from two angles. it is never the same
twice. and never changes.
you can’t go home again, no
shit. but, remember this, neither
can you ever leave.
everyone here was born somewhere
else, in a different country,
even if that place was named
the same as this one. it is changed
now. the horizon much more crowded
than you last remember. the suburbs
huddle nearer each year. bunch
in overplanted crops that bear diminishing
yields. the future is shrinking. salt ruins
more soil out by the coasts every day.
I approach the town I grew up in
from two angles. it is never the same
twice. and never changes.
you can’t go home again, no
shit. but, remember this, neither
can you ever leave.
I Don't Actually Have a Daughter
on the occasion of my daughter’s graduation
I also only wanted
a home, like you
seem perpetually to be seeking,
running in circles, always
& never finding yourself
where you started or thought
you would ever end up. This disguises
some other desire. Your need to be right
about something. To locate a certainty,
attach yourself to it & pray, each day
for the rest of your life, to never be left
alone in the woods again. No matter
how many times I tell you bears don’t live
around here, you refuse to close your eyes
in the daytime. This is a matter of trust.
Not in me, or yourself, but in the upcoming
seconds of time, the possibility the world
might cease to exist if we stop willing it
to behave in exactly the fashion we need.
Does this sound ridiculous? I admit
nothing. There’s no telling how
long this search will continue. How you
may someday find yourself exhausted
in the face of the impossible. What then?
Then you will read this
again.
I also only wanted
a home, like you
seem perpetually to be seeking,
running in circles, always
& never finding yourself
where you started or thought
you would ever end up. This disguises
some other desire. Your need to be right
about something. To locate a certainty,
attach yourself to it & pray, each day
for the rest of your life, to never be left
alone in the woods again. No matter
how many times I tell you bears don’t live
around here, you refuse to close your eyes
in the daytime. This is a matter of trust.
Not in me, or yourself, but in the upcoming
seconds of time, the possibility the world
might cease to exist if we stop willing it
to behave in exactly the fashion we need.
Does this sound ridiculous? I admit
nothing. There’s no telling how
long this search will continue. How you
may someday find yourself exhausted
in the face of the impossible. What then?
Then you will read this
again.
Friday, May 15, 2009
I Like John Ashbery
[title]
I often think of that imaginary time
when it was much more clear
how I should go about living in the world, or better
not think, just follow an invisible
yet unmistakable plan through the heart
of the city, a road laid in golden light
direct from the setting sun that leads
right up Broadway to the steps of the library,
its bronze-domed roof tinted red and the names
emblazoned there, Plato & all the rest, floating as shades
of purple and gray, their marble façade throwing a long shadow
getting longer, clamming the air with knowledge
cool as a tomb & just about as useful
when the pressure drops a thundering rain,
obscures even the night within a fog, here
everything once so clear
to Descartes – who saw,
really saw what he knew,
what he was – ducks into hiding
behind the surface of things, into apartment buildings
where the party continues, you know the one
we meant to attend but missed
again
last weekend when we arrived at a different
address, went the wrong way down 4th Street,
and got caught in crosstown traffic for hours,
stuck in a cab, with a jackknifed semi,
immobilized, blocking our view of the water.
I often think of that imaginary time
when it was much more clear
how I should go about living in the world, or better
not think, just follow an invisible
yet unmistakable plan through the heart
of the city, a road laid in golden light
direct from the setting sun that leads
right up Broadway to the steps of the library,
its bronze-domed roof tinted red and the names
emblazoned there, Plato & all the rest, floating as shades
of purple and gray, their marble façade throwing a long shadow
getting longer, clamming the air with knowledge
cool as a tomb & just about as useful
when the pressure drops a thundering rain,
obscures even the night within a fog, here
everything once so clear
to Descartes – who saw,
really saw what he knew,
what he was – ducks into hiding
behind the surface of things, into apartment buildings
where the party continues, you know the one
we meant to attend but missed
again
last weekend when we arrived at a different
address, went the wrong way down 4th Street,
and got caught in crosstown traffic for hours,
stuck in a cab, with a jackknifed semi,
immobilized, blocking our view of the water.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)