what bolaño is doing to me (bolaño pt 2)
he's making me observe writers and write about it. it's dangerous business. he had time and distance. i'm processing right now. but that is the nature of this age we're living in, everything moving way too fast. little perspective, fuck it. it's not like what i'm saying here is so extreme. names are removed but unfortunately that means i can't cite the excellent poem i'm bringing up here that made me see things clearer.
i just listened to a poem online. it was about the word faggot. i burst at the end cuz it had a sound that was made for that, bursting, as i do, tears popping outta my head. i really needed to burst. I was all tense, mildly hungover, at the end of a cup of coffee, confused by a night out with a bunch of poets, not so terribly confused but confused enough. there was something reserved about how people dealt with each other. there were guards up and then down at certain moments but mostly up. it didn’t feel terrible but it didn’t feel great. only at the reading when I was hiding in the back and just listening to the work, to the words, did it really feel ok. and then right after, with the wine and mingling. there was mingling right after the reading, standing in some parlor, everyone stopping and talking and then meandering about and crashing into each other and stopping again and talking to each other and laughing. at the dinner table later on, there was much less of that.
listening to this poem right now, a great lyrical emotional thing, it seems clear to me, tangible like sitting in the back, hearing the readers last night. there is an urgency. there is a song. there’s dealing with a word so hard that most can’t deal i think and this poet wrapped it around her finger and then let it go. she was completely intimate with the word and that’s just my preferred reality, facing a hard thing and freaking it, just working that thing until it’s yours and then gone.
she is dealing with an ugly thing, isn't afraid of that ugly. last night there was something pretty in the poets, a reserve that was dropped at times in a way that was surprising and necessary but I wanted more. i wanted them to get really ugly, to get loud. There was clearly thought and consideration and rage in them. I wanted to see them just release it. when we sat down to dinner, I couldn’t really deal with the reserve and I wished I had made an earlier exit. I wished I had some energy. it had waned with the wine and the sangria, just more wine. I preferred not to engage much rather than be too ugly, too loud, too wanting to make a scene. maybe we should have been standing instead of sitting at that table, too many strangers drinking.
i wished this poet above had come along. I wished another poet who brought lots of energy earlier and called all kinds of shit out had been there too. some lively ass folks unafraid to be loud. it didn’t feel appropriate for me to be the one to do it. I needed a gang. but then that just meant I went along with what was wrong in that picture.
i just listened to a poem online. it was about the word faggot. i burst at the end cuz it had a sound that was made for that, bursting, as i do, tears popping outta my head. i really needed to burst. I was all tense, mildly hungover, at the end of a cup of coffee, confused by a night out with a bunch of poets, not so terribly confused but confused enough. there was something reserved about how people dealt with each other. there were guards up and then down at certain moments but mostly up. it didn’t feel terrible but it didn’t feel great. only at the reading when I was hiding in the back and just listening to the work, to the words, did it really feel ok. and then right after, with the wine and mingling. there was mingling right after the reading, standing in some parlor, everyone stopping and talking and then meandering about and crashing into each other and stopping again and talking to each other and laughing. at the dinner table later on, there was much less of that.
listening to this poem right now, a great lyrical emotional thing, it seems clear to me, tangible like sitting in the back, hearing the readers last night. there is an urgency. there is a song. there’s dealing with a word so hard that most can’t deal i think and this poet wrapped it around her finger and then let it go. she was completely intimate with the word and that’s just my preferred reality, facing a hard thing and freaking it, just working that thing until it’s yours and then gone.
she is dealing with an ugly thing, isn't afraid of that ugly. last night there was something pretty in the poets, a reserve that was dropped at times in a way that was surprising and necessary but I wanted more. i wanted them to get really ugly, to get loud. There was clearly thought and consideration and rage in them. I wanted to see them just release it. when we sat down to dinner, I couldn’t really deal with the reserve and I wished I had made an earlier exit. I wished I had some energy. it had waned with the wine and the sangria, just more wine. I preferred not to engage much rather than be too ugly, too loud, too wanting to make a scene. maybe we should have been standing instead of sitting at that table, too many strangers drinking.
i wished this poet above had come along. I wished another poet who brought lots of energy earlier and called all kinds of shit out had been there too. some lively ass folks unafraid to be loud. it didn’t feel appropriate for me to be the one to do it. I needed a gang. but then that just meant I went along with what was wrong in that picture.
posted by nightbreaker at
1:32 PM
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