Some performances were long. We raged past the show and burrowed furiously into the night. Other performances were lonely and quiet, intimate, with soft conversation and relaxed acceptance of letting the flow be. On the last night, our voices rose and fell in play with one another, harmonizing at their own accord to the perfect pitches, intervals, frequencies.
I remember feeling strange, to be in the town but not of the town. I came across Shaughnessy’s Our Andromeda while quietly stacking inventory for Princeton students in need of textbooks. She was a local poet, working with the Princeton MFA’s Emerging Writers series and teaching at Rutgers. Now, returning back to the east coast, to New Jersey, to Newark–it seemed like the perfect time to read Shaughnessy’s newest poetry book, So Much Synth, during the five hour flight from Los Angeles.
Found out my friend Ryan passed away last year. We met at the Canoga Park Art Walk a few years back…I typed him a poem, he showed me his drawings. Young guy. Potential. We stayed in touch, hanging out and talking, reflecting. The last time we talked, he told me he was focusing on recovery.
Often we see books as signs of civilization. I take in their tree trunk roots and inked spines and think only of the sky: (books belong in the wild)
Underneath it all, there’s a poem.
“Couple #1” is the first in a series of poems called “The Couple Series.” It was conceived when–following a breakup and other intense life stuff–I somewhat impulsively decided to fly to Hawaii and backpack through the islands.
With all the chaos transpiring around me, I completely forgot about #TyPoInPo! Last year, I asked a few of you to contribute to an experimental, collaborative internet poem I was compiling. We got a ton of great one-liners, which I arranged with my typewriter into a final poem authored by Read more…
Captivated by conversation, tapas and wine, attendees were enthralled by the night. In a literary wonderland reflected through timeless glass, everyone bubbled. Princeton Library celebrations were led by live classical music, auctions, vendors, food, dancing, and free poetry. I’m honored Typewriter Poetry played a small role in the enchantment, even if it was for one night (and one night, only).
The Reef was full of passionate foodies and crafty vendors; what an inspiring mix of people to collide into. Every isle you meandered down beckoned you with some sensually stimulating substance. Scented spices, meats and cheeses–even goats! They nibbled you softly when you went over to say hello.
Most of the people I typed for at last year’s Artisanal LA event have blurred together in memory. Even still, there is one fellow I have no intention of ever forgetting. He came over with a friend. She wandered off to take pictures as he and I began to talk. At first, we did the basic Typewriter Poetry dance. He asked about the project, I answered with my usual bases covered. Soon, something shifted. He sat down on the floor. I halted my work on another person’s poem. We dove into our hitchhiking and traveling stories; afterward, he shared his love of robotics and electronics with me.
“As We Peel Back The Layers Of The Artist’s Anticipated Level Of Engagement, We Find Numerous Sources Of Radical, Inclusionary, Destructive Creation Visions Reconstructed In Such A Manner That One Would Have To Lack All Sensation In Order To Dehumanize Such An Authentic Rendition Of Our Given Subjective Realities”
What is art?
Ophelia–also known as “Killer Rabbit”–is the one in the blue #15 helmet. That evening, she moved in a way that reminded me of my younger self. An untouched sure-footedness which, I think now, stems from being oblivious of your own confidence. It’s something tough. Lasting. The aura before you discover what awkwardness really means.