Jun 04 email newsletter
Vol. 1, No. 1
1. Two electric guitars duel like a pair of scorpions on a desert floor, with a sax soaring above like a breeze. The bass is, perhaps, sorta like distant thunder. Drums play some sort of primal role. It’s the Jay Johnson Band on Tuesday night in a sports bar, The End Zone, in unlikely Plano. It’s a 35-minute version of "Perfect Villain," and it is good. It is rock ‘n’ roll. It is one of those times when you can lose yourself, for a while.
2. I listen to Sarah Lynn Fisher for the first time in a couple of years. Keyboards. A high soprano voice, a little tentative or perhaps even fragile. Complex. Often melancholy. I cannot describe the sudden feeling that came over me that her music feels, somehow, like my poetry feels to me; I could be the only person who believes that. Sarah Lynn is about to go to graduate school (musicology) to learn how to write about, among other things, listening to music.
3. Jazz remains a mystery to me, but not so much of a mystery as it once was. After seven years of writing about American roots music, and after a lifetime of listening to country fiddle and to folk music and to whatever stuck, temporarily, from whatever radio station I was listening to, I’m finally beginning to get it. I can’t articulate it yet, but I will. Later.
4. Kids. I went to a birthday party for a little girl turning nine. I sat on a sofa in the den, where (she told me) her mother usually sits. The girl announced to the room in general that she would sit, today, in the middle of the sofa. And within 30 seconds she was up against me sharing a story she wrote for school. I was honored. Later, I went home and drank maybe half a bottle of Bacardi Premium Black rum. I woke up during the night, sick.
5. Too many writers seem to confuse style with attitude. On National Public Radio today, A screenwriter mentioned "attacking" a subject. For a moment, I liked that thought. But I decided "probing" is a better word. I like information, context, and perspective. I believe that what’s left out of any piece of writing is almost as important as what is included. I am not opposed, sometimes, to purposeful ambiguity. A friend I treasure can find paragraphs of meaning in my writing that I never put there. That’s okay; it means she’s reading it and thinking about it.
6. To close, here is a poem I wrote for a young friend who is trying to follow a dream. Some of you may have seen it before.
STOLEN LIES IN 5 PARTS
she dances
on a moonlit strip of sand
on the shore of a great ocean
dances slow
to the ocean’s sounds
for hours that won’t end
dances faster
and faster around her reality
of stars too far to reach
1.
"I will be beautiful forever," she sings,
as the wind wraps its arms around her
and caresses the small of her back;
she dances thought away, in the arms of the moment
2.
"I will touch the stars like the wind," she sings,
as the moon gives its heart to her
and begins to whisper the secrets of the sky;
she dances with the moon’s light touching her beautiful face
3.
"I will drink the moon like pale silver," she sings,
as the sea birds flow, chanting relics of ancient spells
and calling to her with meaningless promises;
she dances, with her beautiful arms raised to hold the chalice
4.
"I will flow free over the ocean," she sings,
as the tide wets every grain of sand
in its longing rush to taste her beautiful legs;
she dances, wishing for wings to fly away, fly away
5.
"I will be the very ocean itself," she sings,
as the wind dies in the mourning sun
and she dances and she dances into the light;
she dances into the passion of her beautiful body’s heat
she dances
in the truth of her own movement
until myth begins to wrap its arms around her
she twists herself free,
dances faster
all day on the shore under the sun;
"I will be the very stars themselves," she sings,
as the sky begins to darken again
Vol. 1, No. 1
1. Two electric guitars duel like a pair of scorpions on a desert floor, with a sax soaring above like a breeze. The bass is, perhaps, sorta like distant thunder. Drums play some sort of primal role. It’s the Jay Johnson Band on Tuesday night in a sports bar, The End Zone, in unlikely Plano. It’s a 35-minute version of "Perfect Villain," and it is good. It is rock ‘n’ roll. It is one of those times when you can lose yourself, for a while.
2. I listen to Sarah Lynn Fisher for the first time in a couple of years. Keyboards. A high soprano voice, a little tentative or perhaps even fragile. Complex. Often melancholy. I cannot describe the sudden feeling that came over me that her music feels, somehow, like my poetry feels to me; I could be the only person who believes that. Sarah Lynn is about to go to graduate school (musicology) to learn how to write about, among other things, listening to music.
3. Jazz remains a mystery to me, but not so much of a mystery as it once was. After seven years of writing about American roots music, and after a lifetime of listening to country fiddle and to folk music and to whatever stuck, temporarily, from whatever radio station I was listening to, I’m finally beginning to get it. I can’t articulate it yet, but I will. Later.
4. Kids. I went to a birthday party for a little girl turning nine. I sat on a sofa in the den, where (she told me) her mother usually sits. The girl announced to the room in general that she would sit, today, in the middle of the sofa. And within 30 seconds she was up against me sharing a story she wrote for school. I was honored. Later, I went home and drank maybe half a bottle of Bacardi Premium Black rum. I woke up during the night, sick.
5. Too many writers seem to confuse style with attitude. On National Public Radio today, A screenwriter mentioned "attacking" a subject. For a moment, I liked that thought. But I decided "probing" is a better word. I like information, context, and perspective. I believe that what’s left out of any piece of writing is almost as important as what is included. I am not opposed, sometimes, to purposeful ambiguity. A friend I treasure can find paragraphs of meaning in my writing that I never put there. That’s okay; it means she’s reading it and thinking about it.
6. To close, here is a poem I wrote for a young friend who is trying to follow a dream. Some of you may have seen it before.
STOLEN LIES IN 5 PARTS
she dances
on a moonlit strip of sand
on the shore of a great ocean
dances slow
to the ocean’s sounds
for hours that won’t end
dances faster
and faster around her reality
of stars too far to reach
1.
"I will be beautiful forever," she sings,
as the wind wraps its arms around her
and caresses the small of her back;
she dances thought away, in the arms of the moment
2.
"I will touch the stars like the wind," she sings,
as the moon gives its heart to her
and begins to whisper the secrets of the sky;
she dances with the moon’s light touching her beautiful face
3.
"I will drink the moon like pale silver," she sings,
as the sea birds flow, chanting relics of ancient spells
and calling to her with meaningless promises;
she dances, with her beautiful arms raised to hold the chalice
4.
"I will flow free over the ocean," she sings,
as the tide wets every grain of sand
in its longing rush to taste her beautiful legs;
she dances, wishing for wings to fly away, fly away
5.
"I will be the very ocean itself," she sings,
as the wind dies in the mourning sun
and she dances and she dances into the light;
she dances into the passion of her beautiful body’s heat
she dances
in the truth of her own movement
until myth begins to wrap its arms around her
she twists herself free,
dances faster
all day on the shore under the sun;
"I will be the very stars themselves," she sings,
as the sky begins to darken again
posted by Tom at
9:09 AM
