"resist, rebel, relax...ahh" at the KGB Bar last night

After work, I walked to the KGB Bar in the East Village. I'd gone to see/hear poetry & prose being read by Tony O'Neill, Zachary German, Lee Rourke, and Tao Lin. Actually, I'd gone to see German and Lin specifically, and had never heard of the other two. 

I arrived early and managed to have several drinks before anyone else was in the room. 

The reading began almost 45 minutes late. I'm always more inclined to be dissatisfied with any event that starts so late. While waiting, Zachary German & Tao Lin arrived. They sat in front of me and put their books on the table. Tao Lin's Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy, a collection of poems,  is very new. Zachary German had unbound chapbooks for sale. An edition of 20, titled The Name Of This Band Is The Talking Heads. I bought a copy of each. German's chapbook came pre-signed. Lin drew pictures in place of signatures. For me he drew an encircled star, underscored by three flounder in a row. 

The reading began with Tony O'Neill. He writes from experience about crack & porn. His words were humorous, but unconvincing & insincere. It may have been the way in which he read. I haven' t read his work. Then Tao Lin read. His voice was detached, devoid of any emphasis. I wanted him to read from his new book. Instead, he read this self-amused slapstick comparing two indie documentaries. I read some of his book before the reading began. It's actually quite good. 

the effect of small children 

is that they use declarative sentences and then look at your face 

with an expression that says, 'you will never do enough 

for the people you love'; i can feel the universe expanding

and it feels like no one is trying hard enough

-from i will learn how to love a person and then i will teach you and then we will know, Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy, Tao Lin

He should have read this poem. And others from the book. 

His reading was brief, and then there was a break. I hadn't felt well all day, but was trying to gather up strength. I wanted to stay. 

 

Standing on the steps outside, I met a man from South Dakota. Before the reading began, his daughter was handing out his business cards. He runs Lit Up Magazine. He began listing so many writers. I hadn't heard of any of them. There are so many circles of poetry, some open & some closed. The conversation went nowhere, and he increasingly contradicted himself. 

I wanted to stay for Zachary German's reading, but I went upstairs to find Lee Rourke reading, and I knew I couldn't stand through it all. I read German's unbound chapbook on the train home. I tried to imagine the words coming out of his head, with his mass of hair. He dressed well for the reading, a nice suit. Tao Lin wore a hooded sweatshirt. 

German seemed exceptionally pleasant. Not at all pretentious, which softened the blow as I realized how much I disliked the writing in his chapbook. That said, the layout provides a Notes section at the top of each page. I'm considering writing in my notes & republishing it. 

Rereading a text by Tao Lin

I have spent time reading things written by Tao Lin. His persona (its blog avatar) can be so abrasive, and can make the transition into his often personal poems/stories arduous. But today I read this: 

Garret began to say things like, "Without coffee I am nothing," and "Terrorism Schmerrorism Berrorism Schlerorrism," which he said mostly for the torpidity of it, the easy mindlessness of it. He felt that the bones of his jaw and skull were growing, felt the fatty pout of his lips, the discomfort of bigger bones behind his mouth and face. He stopped going to classes, and applied for jobs in China Town. He tried not to think. He tried just to love. Anything there was, he tried just to love. It didn't work that way, though. It just didn't. Love, after all, was not sold in bundles, by the pound. Love was not ill-lit, enervated, China Town asparagus.

Tao Lin, from LOVE IS A THING ON SALE FOR MORE MONEY THAN THERE EXISTS

 

The situation/ sentiment is beautiful, sad & strong. Throughout the larger context of the story, the narrative plot passes by almost aimlessly, as if to get from one end of the day to the other, but the language, the narrative of the language, is not aimless. It is curious & hopeful, if only enough to keep searching, to keep trying "just to love," to keep mouthing reamendments of "TERRORISM," thereby obliterating or at least dislodging its lingual existence.

Why does he want to stack so many words around his meaning(s)? Is it an intentionally obfuscating act? Does he find living to be so obfuscated? Or is it methodical, working up to thought by way of "typing" action?  

 

Typists, Bloggers, Poets & Bastards, Oh My.

Over the past few days I've been overworked & unwell. In this defunct state I've spent what little time I've had investigating various poet's blogs by way of link hopping from and through the various poets' blogs I read regularly. 

I've confirmed my suspicion that there are entire parrallel poetry worlds. 

When you physically travel to a new place, the retrospective report of your experience is defined by what you did, where (specifically) you went, and whom you met. Those things, for you, are that place. The internet does not have the luxury of borders, hence each individual or organization sets about establishing and defining persona(l) parameters: the visual textual stylings of each URL, each place. For now, I'll leave collective agencies such as MySpace and Facebook out of the equation. 

One particular junket began with a link to a blog belonging to Lamination Colony editor, Blake Butler,  a recent aquaintance of mine. From there, I followed a link to Tao Lin's blog, where I witnessed a big engaging ego, fumbling empathetically and failing (to some success). Amidist the frenzy that is the comment pages of his posts, I followed links to two of his compatriots: Noah Cicero and Zachary German. I should mention that prior to following those links, I took a number of short trips  by way of Tao Lin's inter-post links associated with various discussion points (i.e. Moby, "shit-talking[s]" and more). Along the way, I found discussions relating to Tao Lin as well as to Noah Cicero and Zachary German. For now, I can't think of what to say about them, except, I don't know what they care about. There are somethings akin to Kenneth Goldsmith's notions of practicing uncreativity, but conflicting or competing with an angsty bravado. 

I spent a long while reading about "shit-talking." I can't think of what to say about that either. I simply feel more unwell. Is this this the fallout of our New Communications? The ugly juxtaposition of our (id)eas? 

I don't know. But I need further reading. These writers or "typists" are after something, exploring/ exploiting diluted scenarios and rhetoric. Something holds them together. There is a semblance of community, but is it an assembly of shared indifference on similar topics? Or is there a kind of hope? Further reading.