Overall, this has been a pretty good sports weekend. The Mets crushed the ball and pitched rather well against the Diamondbacks in their three-game sweep, Manchester United beat Everton to continue their run to a record nineteenth league championship, and (almost as good in terms of the chuckle it gave me) Arsenal lost to Bolton Wanderers to basically end their title challenge.
For better or worse, Sunday sports results always really affect my mood going into the week. It's nice to get this week started on a good note--the Mets winning, the sun shining.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
Tim Dlugos Lives!
I just found out today that Tim Dlugos's Collected Poems is coming out next month, edited by David Trinidad. Dlugos died of AIDS in 1990 just as he was becoming established as a significant poetic voice not only in the gay literary community, but in the wider poetry community as well. Since then he's been virtually ignored by anthologists and critics with the exception of a few short articles by Trinidad.
I was introduced to Dlugos's work when a professor of mine suggested I do a paper on him about five years ago (I have been remiss in failing to either revise it for publication or at least present it at a conference, but will have to revisit it once the new book is released). I love his poems because they have a vitality to them that is Frank O'Hara-esque. O'Hara is my favorite poet; thus that is one of the highest compliments I can pay another writer.
For instance, here is "Not Stravinsky" in full:
Dark-eyed boy in tight designer jeans and sneakers on your way from basketball practice at Bishop Somebody High, I
don't know what you're playing on your Walkman but it probably is not Stravinsky. (Powerless 46)
I love the Whitman-esque long lines (the poem is only two lines long even though each line is long enough to take up two lines of print) and subject matter. The same-sex desire expressed in the poem is beautiful, a fleeting moment of both enjoyment and sadness (the desire going completely unrequited) for the speaker (presumably Dlugos), the knowledge that all the two will ever share is a fleeting moment in passing that isn't even recognized by the boy, but is striking enough for Dlugos to commemorate in a poem. We see here the immediacy of O'Hara's "I do this I do that" poems, that urgency to get an experience down on paper before one moves on with the day, with the rest of life. Dlugos's "On This Train Are People Who Resemble" is also in this vein, an everyday list poem colored by the New York City vibe and references to pop culture. In fact, one could pass it off as a lost O'Hara poem to readers unfamiliar with Dlugos's work.
Hopefully this new collection will put Dlugos back on readers' radar because his work is too good to disappear outside the boundaries of the canon, which, for all its problematic characteristics, is useful for keeping essential literature in print. The best-case scenario would be for Dlugos's Collected Poems to do for his critical reputation what O'Hara's did for his when it was first published in 1971 (O'Hara was more well-known then than Dlugos is now among poetry lovers, but not yet among critics from the academy). Dlugos's Powerless: Selected Poems 1973-1990 (New York: High Risk Books, 1996, also edited by Trinidad), which is an excellent, concise collection, unfortunately did little to stir interest in his work.
I was introduced to Dlugos's work when a professor of mine suggested I do a paper on him about five years ago (I have been remiss in failing to either revise it for publication or at least present it at a conference, but will have to revisit it once the new book is released). I love his poems because they have a vitality to them that is Frank O'Hara-esque. O'Hara is my favorite poet; thus that is one of the highest compliments I can pay another writer.
For instance, here is "Not Stravinsky" in full:
Dark-eyed boy in tight designer jeans and sneakers on your way from basketball practice at Bishop Somebody High, I
don't know what you're playing on your Walkman but it probably is not Stravinsky. (Powerless 46)
I love the Whitman-esque long lines (the poem is only two lines long even though each line is long enough to take up two lines of print) and subject matter. The same-sex desire expressed in the poem is beautiful, a fleeting moment of both enjoyment and sadness (the desire going completely unrequited) for the speaker (presumably Dlugos), the knowledge that all the two will ever share is a fleeting moment in passing that isn't even recognized by the boy, but is striking enough for Dlugos to commemorate in a poem. We see here the immediacy of O'Hara's "I do this I do that" poems, that urgency to get an experience down on paper before one moves on with the day, with the rest of life. Dlugos's "On This Train Are People Who Resemble" is also in this vein, an everyday list poem colored by the New York City vibe and references to pop culture. In fact, one could pass it off as a lost O'Hara poem to readers unfamiliar with Dlugos's work.
Hopefully this new collection will put Dlugos back on readers' radar because his work is too good to disappear outside the boundaries of the canon, which, for all its problematic characteristics, is useful for keeping essential literature in print. The best-case scenario would be for Dlugos's Collected Poems to do for his critical reputation what O'Hara's did for his when it was first published in 1971 (O'Hara was more well-known then than Dlugos is now among poetry lovers, but not yet among critics from the academy). Dlugos's Powerless: Selected Poems 1973-1990 (New York: High Risk Books, 1996, also edited by Trinidad), which is an excellent, concise collection, unfortunately did little to stir interest in his work.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
"New York" Soccer
I just got back from class this evening and am watching the second half of the DC United-Red Bull New York match, so no post today other than to say that I can't wait for MLS to get a second team in New York, one that actually plays in New York (hopefully the Cosmos) so that I can root for a New York team rather than one that plays in Jersey whose star player is fucking Thierry Henry.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Thoughts on Re-Reading
Later this afternoon I am going to begin re-reading Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses for the first time since I bought it at the Strand (12th and Broadway in NYC) in summer 2003. I claim Rushdie as one of my favorite authors, but I haven't actually read any of his work since reading Midnight's Children in late 2005. Thus I am excited to get back to him.
I have done hardly any re-reading over the past seven years while I've been in graduate school (except in those instances where a book was assigned in several of my classes or I assigned a book to my classes multiple times [e.g., Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close], and also when studying for my Ph.D. exams) because I have not had the time. This is a practice that I miss, because I almost always find that I gain new insights into a text the second (or third, etc.) time around. I like the idea of having a set of texts that one returns to for sustenance throughout one's life as reminders for who one is and where one finds beauty in the world. Religious persons would use the term "sacred texts" to label what I am describing, and I like this term even though I am not religious and don't really care whether a "God" exists (actions are what is important, not whether some unprovable supernatural being is out there or not) because it signifies the idea that some texts help us experience the sublime, the beauty of the world (which are both important concepts for secular folks to claim) better than others.
Texts that have played this "sacred" role for me in the past and that I wish I had time now to re-read, but do not, include Chaim Potok's My Name is Asher Lev, Rudy Wiebe's The Blue Mountains of China, Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, and Di Brandt's poetry. Two authors that I have been able to re-read and continue to re-read as I have the time are Walt Whitman and Samuel R. Delany, both of whom I try to teach whenever possible. In Whitman's case, it's much easier to find time to re-read a poem or two (or a section of "Song of Myself" as the case may be) than a novel.
Part of what makes it so difficult to re-read is that I am always finding new books to read as well. I have at least a dozen new books on my shelf (mostly novels) waiting for me. Certainly my book-buying addiction does not lend itself to contemplative returns to old friends.
Also, sometimes I love parentheses a little too much.
I have done hardly any re-reading over the past seven years while I've been in graduate school (except in those instances where a book was assigned in several of my classes or I assigned a book to my classes multiple times [e.g., Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close], and also when studying for my Ph.D. exams) because I have not had the time. This is a practice that I miss, because I almost always find that I gain new insights into a text the second (or third, etc.) time around. I like the idea of having a set of texts that one returns to for sustenance throughout one's life as reminders for who one is and where one finds beauty in the world. Religious persons would use the term "sacred texts" to label what I am describing, and I like this term even though I am not religious and don't really care whether a "God" exists (actions are what is important, not whether some unprovable supernatural being is out there or not) because it signifies the idea that some texts help us experience the sublime, the beauty of the world (which are both important concepts for secular folks to claim) better than others.
Texts that have played this "sacred" role for me in the past and that I wish I had time now to re-read, but do not, include Chaim Potok's My Name is Asher Lev, Rudy Wiebe's The Blue Mountains of China, Fyodor Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, and Di Brandt's poetry. Two authors that I have been able to re-read and continue to re-read as I have the time are Walt Whitman and Samuel R. Delany, both of whom I try to teach whenever possible. In Whitman's case, it's much easier to find time to re-read a poem or two (or a section of "Song of Myself" as the case may be) than a novel.
Part of what makes it so difficult to re-read is that I am always finding new books to read as well. I have at least a dozen new books on my shelf (mostly novels) waiting for me. Certainly my book-buying addiction does not lend itself to contemplative returns to old friends.
Also, sometimes I love parentheses a little too much.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
The Beatles and Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
One of my favorite aspects about Oskar in Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close is his love for the Beatles, which I share. Oskar randomly mentions Beatles songs throughout the narrative (including some fairly obscure ones), but there are two that are especially important for understanding his mental state througout the book (as opposed to, say, "Yellow Submarine" [1]). They occur in the same sentence, just before Oskar checks the phone messages on 9/11 that have been left by his soon-to-be-dead father (14).
The first song is "Fixing a Hole" (off of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, probably the least well-known song Oskar references--one has to be familiar with the album to know it). This one is rather obvious: throughout the novel Oskar is attempting to "fix the hole" left inside of him after his father's death so he can move on with his life. The song itself is a rather hopeful one because the speaker is having success fixing the hole, but Oskar has no idea how to begin this process. He simply falls into it once he discovers the key in his father's closet and begins searching for its lock.
The second song is "I Want to Tell You" (off of Revolver, an underrated album as far as it is possible for Beatles albums to be underrated). Oskar desperately needs someone to talk to, he "wants to tell" someone about his pain, and he does so to the reader in his rapid-fire almost stream-of-consciousness narration, but what he really wants is to be able to talk with his dead father, and, since that is impossible, to his mother, from whom he feels alienated. But "When [she's] here / All those words, they seem to slip away." He doesn't know how to break down the barrier between them, and she doesn't either. It is not until the end of the book that they slowly begin to communicate again.
The first song is "Fixing a Hole" (off of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, probably the least well-known song Oskar references--one has to be familiar with the album to know it). This one is rather obvious: throughout the novel Oskar is attempting to "fix the hole" left inside of him after his father's death so he can move on with his life. The song itself is a rather hopeful one because the speaker is having success fixing the hole, but Oskar has no idea how to begin this process. He simply falls into it once he discovers the key in his father's closet and begins searching for its lock.
The second song is "I Want to Tell You" (off of Revolver, an underrated album as far as it is possible for Beatles albums to be underrated). Oskar desperately needs someone to talk to, he "wants to tell" someone about his pain, and he does so to the reader in his rapid-fire almost stream-of-consciousness narration, but what he really wants is to be able to talk with his dead father, and, since that is impossible, to his mother, from whom he feels alienated. But "When [she's] here / All those words, they seem to slip away." He doesn't know how to break down the barrier between them, and she doesn't either. It is not until the end of the book that they slowly begin to communicate again.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Being Scholarly
Today has been an excellent, well-rounded day of scholarly activity. I taught the first quarter of my favorite book, Jonathan Safran Foer’s Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close, in my Masterpieces of American Literature course, read some early Allen Ginsberg poems in preparation for a lecture on him that I am attending tomorrow, and wrote an abstract on the role of nudity in Samuel R. Delany’s work for a queer studies conference next October. Ginsberg and Delany are two of the inspirations for my beard (Walt Whitman is the third); it was a happy coincidence that they both played a role in my day. Writing the abstract was my favorite part of the day because it came so easily. It was one of those rare writing experiences where I can barely type fast enough to keep up with my thoughts. This was in part because Delany is consistently very open about his body in his nonfiction and about his characters’ bodies in his fiction, so there is a lot of material to write about, but also because now that I have a job for next year I can focus on my scholarship again, which I have missed deeply. It feels good to get the creative juices flowing, to be reminded that I can still think in a scholarly way after not having done so since November, really.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Back in the Saddle Again
Today marks the return of the New Yorker in Exile blog. We'll see if lasts more than a few weeks this time! However, I am committed this go-round to posting every day no matter what, even if it is simply to post a message explaining why I haven't added any new content that day. I am beginning the blog again because I've been thinking a lot about the concept of "exile" in the past few days. I just accepted a job at Westminster College in Salt Lake City, Utah, which is somewhere that I never thought I would live. It turns out that SLC is a pretty cool place. It has beautiful architecture, amazing scenery (everywhere one turns there are mountains in the near distance that look so perfect one thinks they must be paintings rather than the real thing), and the largest per-capita rate of LGBT persons in the United States, so I will feel right at home. SLC is also intriguing to me conceptually because of its role as a refuge from exile for Mormon settlers. Having lived in the Mennonite equivalent of SLC, Lancaster, Pennsylvania, as an insider, I am fascinated to see what it will be like to live in an end-destination for exiles as an outsider. One reason why the job at Westminster is appealing to me is because it is so far removed from my current/previous life. I am needing a split from my life in DeKalb, a place of refuge to heal from the ravaging experience of graduate school and to have a new beginning. In a sense, I am feeling the need to go into exile. This desire for a completely new space causes part of me to feel like Jonah fleeing to Tarshish rather than dutifully going to Ninevah (i.e., feeling a bit guilty, like maybe I am simply running from the difficult rather than confronting it), but overall I feel the move will be an invigorating, revitalizing experience. SLC will be a liminal space in my life because I will only be there for two or three years (the stated term of my job), which is also an invigorating factor. It can act as a place of renewal while also presenting itself as a jumping-off point. The structured temporariness of the position is something I need. A spot on my continuing journey rather than an ending.
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