…afternoon I was able to watch one of my favorite classics: Breakfast at Tiffany’s. This was rather timely, given Ken’s blog post awhile ago which caused me to take out an old copy of the novel and place it on my reading list. Yesterday afternoon, with the movie fresh in my mind, and the commentators statements about Capote’s reeling over casting and ending alterations, I re-read the novel (it doesn’t take long). I still like them both–the novel still surprises me, as it is a good read ( I don’t know if it’s familiarity of pulling on Capote’s language like an old quilt, or the shortness/quickness of the novel, but it works).

I think the ending of the movie suits the banal romantic endings that Hollywood believes the audience wants to see, but I think that by casting Audrey Hepburn they removed the blatant sexual nature to Holly, and portrayed her as objectified girl/woman in need of care. In the movie, the men are in love with her more than they want to have sex with her; however, the part of the movie that didn’t sit well with me (and Capote doesn’t write this dialogue in the novel) is when Paul/Fred states to Holly that he “owns her” because he loves her—well, how absurd.

… is something I always think about–even sometimes to the point of dreaming about it. Last night was such a night. I dreamed about images within a poem and about writing my way through the images. I’ve been reading about expressionist poetry, what makes it, who made/makes it, and how it is made.

An example from the early poetry of Bertolt Brecht:

I, Bertolt Brecht…make friends with peo-
ple. And I wear
A derby on my head as others do.
I say: they’re strangely stinking animals.
And I say: no matter, I am, too.

Selden Rodman states: “For his style, Brecht drew upon the richly formalized folk balladry of Germany, upon the understatement of Chinese lyricism, upon the Bible and Protestant liturgical writings, above all on the undecorated directness of Greek drama”.

Brecht searched beyond his world to find his world.

The search for faith appears as something integral to expressionist poetry. Is artistic passion a reflection of our faith, whether we see it or not, or merely a reaction against the faith of others?

(Stay tuned for the next installment of “Poets in Space” )

…to do something about this unorganized mess of books. I have them stacked on each shelf, in no general order (I often push madly through trying to find something and end up creating more chaos). New bookshelves must be a thought. I would love to have a library room, but don’t really have the space. As I was unusually busy in the fall, I never had to time to do anything with the 50 or so books that I bought/received over the past 6 months. These pictures are not an accurate depiction either of the amount of books, as there are still about 100 more floating about the house, and there are two full boxes of paperbacks and old literary magazines that I’ve been trying to sell in garage sales (I did manage to sell some a few years ago). I’ve been avoiding this job for too long and must get at it.

I’m wondering if book swaps are popular events. That’s a picture of my grandmother (my mother’s mother) on the shelf. I used to have more pictures, but ran out of space.

Most of the poetry books are on the bottom 2 shelves, with the exception of the 2 dozen that I have scattered throughout the house.

(Most of the books behind the books on these two shelves are textbooks of some sort or other–some are collectibles, but they aren’t in the shot (the shelves in this shot continue for another foot or so on either side)). As you can see, I have my work cut out.

…alright, here’s one more for you to chew on:

A Found Spamtoum

Her unusual artistic quilts. Website in human
rights north. Search updates read
readers more recent client. Encoded.
Backend this, nonprofit that. Listing past

rights north. Search updates, read.
Click here: crisp, clear, easy,
backend this, nonprofit that. Listing past
upon first glance. Launch large with need?

Click here crisp, clear easy.
Text matter rather complex over world they also got.
Upon first glance launch large with need.
Subsequent state of the roads might be several days.

Text matter rather complex over world they also got
coming to possible scandal. They clung to it.
Subsequent state of the roads might be several days
obliged to remain hard for considerable periods.

Coming to possible scandal, they clung to it—
readers more recent client, encoded.
Obliged to remain hard for considerable periods,
her unusual artistic quilts website, in-human.

…this time I decided a sonnet was in order. As with the other one, I’ll be randomly editing this one, and as always comments or suggestions are welcome, and in fact, encouraged.

Author’s Generally Found Sonnet

Art for example, Kincaid’s painting, dawns.
Increase market conditions stipulate
what was last modified: January.
All text forgot like alternate endings!
Face explains. Text available, terms rights
details. Follow directions— note intent
membership once a month. Signature I
pod. Applicable: lack of newspapers.
Decorum broke. Already, uploaded—
able humbled beginners, complete, guide
everything could was last modified in
January: all text. Removal all
feeds, sites, maps, topics, player and Cohen.
No sharing individual colleagues.

…of you already know, after 6 1/2 years, I’ve finished my honours BA in English, and while I contemplate applying for an MA with a creative writing option (something that must get done shortly), I’m also furiously (if that’s possible) working on 2 manuscripts. My posting will be more sporatic than ever, and in the months of February and April, probably non-existent as I write and research my work.

For those who want to hear some poetry being read, you can listen along to Zach Wells and myself at 39 Dover St. The time is a 7 hour difference if you have a short wave radio. I do, but don’t know where it is. This link will allow you to hear it regardless.

…Indeed. A line from John Ashbery’s “Pyrography”.

I’ve added some new writing links. I’m really fascinated with the Poetry Foundation.

___________________________

For anyone following this blog regularly, I’m continually editing the “found poem” in the New Year’s post. Comments are always welcome.

———————-

update:

For those still curious about the present by the rockstar–follow this link . My sack is already starting to get nice and soft! (I thought I’d never say that in my life!)

Here’s a found poem (the influx of spam in my mail box lately inspired me) I wrote for the occasion:

Body Click Here To Found Poem

Where lived, said she, does live here:
wife entered control.

External links contain errors.
Sacromento James takes classes.

Beverly Hills script hand directed
spotted, Central America, Asia, Africa.

Alone despite birth—snake.
Infancy now killed me.

Undressing pantyfree. Booed.
Panty classes.

Beverly Hills script hand directed
concerns woman.

Owner’s details imagine
fat disheveled? Game that beau.

Unless otherwise noted
usually try give visual content.

Las Vegas pure page pages.
Credit featured site unless otherwise noted.

External links contain errors if known.
No control, external links

contain errors. But stop.
Traveling Brad Pitt spotted.

Caught, video visage
inspired mass booing crowd.

Vogue sorry partying without sluts.
Terms all people smart.

Fabulous– we ate clam credit.
Featured site unless otherwise noted.

Playboy being shunned. Circles sun.
Say upset, become close.

…I read Devin Krukoff’s debut novel Compensation. I was curious about the book as it had been shortlisted for 2 awards at the recent Saskatchewan Book Awards, and because Krukoff is a former Regina resident and a product of the creative writing program at UVic.

So I read the book in a few hours. I don’t intend for this to be a review, but here are some thoughts about the novel.

The comment made by the rockstar earlier holds true for me as well. I was expecting the novel to move beyond what it attempts to do (which, according to the blurb is an anatomy of a life of avoidance) –although I’m don’t think it fulfills the anatomy part as the bones, while solid, are not broken enough to fit the coffin.

The short novel (there were only 147 pages, and there was at least an inch margin on each page) spanned the life of Richard Parks, a chronic manipulator addicted to illness as a means of emotional control over others. The opening pages were vivid (much like movie narration during flashbacks, the 1st person narrator attempts to snatch the reader’s collar during his flashbacks and pull the reader along); they captured an immediate oddness to the life surrounding the character, an intrigue to the outcome, and a sadness.

The characterization of Richard reminded me of the protagonist from John Fowles’ first novel The Collector. There is an emotional distance to the main character that the reader understands, and through 1st person narration the reader swims through the consciousness of the character; however, because the swim was often in tepid, shallow water, I ultimately ended up having no sympathy for Richard. Interestingly enough, I wanted to feel something for him, even if it was pure disgust. The plunge into psychological illness is poetically written, and often the language is quite compelling yet I couldn’t help but feel there was something missing–or perhaps this was point of the novel, that Richard’s inertia in life is something no one can understand, so while the reader is able to pinpoint the moment of crisis/incident for Richard, it is the reader’s incomprehension of difference that is alluded to.

The writing, the language, and the style were all quite good. While I wanted to see more scenes (more action/dialogue) rather than lengthy narration, the descriptions were clear and startlingly refreshing in their composition.

Despite the refreshing language, there was no tension in the novel. This alone was interesting, as I thought there might be the character’s personal tension, a waffling between what is normal and what is not, but I suppose the point is that the reader is certain that Richard was never normal to begin with. The failing relationships are in his mind, and the failure to comprehend the world around him causes him to fail in comprehension of his own life. I felt that I needed to read more of the mystery surrounding the circumstances of normality–if that makes any sense. While the reader is in his mind, the reader still isn’t sure the why and who of Richard. The novel sits on the surface of the illness, floating on Richard’s need to fake illness without ever needling through the layers.

Overall, I felt it was a good attempt at attempting the unknown mind of the physically able, yet unstable need to be compensated in the odd personality of Richard Parks. While intriguing, the book never seems to move beyond the pale path of its narrated tale.

…you’ve been following along with the present alluded to more than once by the rockstar Rhett on his blog, and the huge amount of elaboration surrounding this present, I’m happy to report that the gift has exceeded all expectations. Yes. It’s nothing I could ever have imagined, but something I’m using right now. It’s something people laugh oddly at, but can’t keep from rolling about in their fingers. It’s something unique, but oddly useful.

Now, I can’t get any more detailed as the happy, snow-cavorting, you-tube poet-star has not yet received hers in the mail. I can only say, the rockstar has outdone himself. I’m not sure how he’s going to top this one next year. 🙂