As concerning some of the time spent in an empty apartment in Oakland, Ca. after the success of "operation keys," which involved a two and a half mile walk from the train station with a heavy suitcase, a heavy attache case, and an inconvenient and awkward box--the weight of which resulted in a sore neck/back, bruised shoulders, and the length of which, the walk I mean, resulted in a giant blister on the left heel--and following to a "T" these instructions: "When you get to [the] place on [Certain] St., the first building on the left, you will see, to the side of the main front entrance, a garden. Take the stairs down into the garden and find a toilet with plants pouring out of it. There is a seashell below it...lift it up--keys."
I am considering putting everything I write within quotations, in order to acknowledge that anything I say has already been said by someone, somewhere, and at some time. If it were not for the fact that such a task seems extremely tiring, I would certainly do so. I am, however, quite lazy when it comes to such matters, so I will ask you, reader--if you exist; you must exist--to please imagine the quotations are there, though invisible, from here on out; no, rather from the beginning of this paragraph, forward.*
Having made that statement(again, and again, and so on), I will also say that the acknowledgment of such does not hinder my desire to continue to speak, to tell stories, to repeat, repeat. In fact, I am somewhat encouraged by it because a) anything I say can be attributed to someone else, therefore largely freeing me of the personal responsibility which comes with "individual thinking" and creative license, and b) if I am compelled to reiterate things said repeatedly through the ages, then there is clearly a timeless quality to whatever I say, even if it appears minute or trivial on the surface--a fine notion that I am more than willing to believe in.**
Moving on, as always.
On to the relation of a short anecdote that occurred in the very garden where "operation keys" was completed, wherein I made my first meaningful connection in Oakland--a squirrel. I was sitting in this garden, mulling over nothing in particular, simply enjoying the day and moment for what they were, and a squirrel appeared in the tree behind me. I turned to face him, and found that he was staring at me. He was somewhat upright, holding in his mouth a peanut, shell and all, turning it over and over presumably to lick off the salt and continuing to stare all the while. I said hello, and stared back. The squirrel put a tiny hand to his chest--and this "hand" was most definitely that of a human--as if to say, "Are you addressing me, sir?" I laughed at his gesture, because we were the only two people in the garden and it was obvious already that I was addressing him. He went back to turning the peanut over in his mouth like an old cowboy with a toothpick.
As the mutual stare was prolonged, I recalled a night where a homeless man had shook my hand for fifteen minutes, without once letting go, while making these small sounds, like "spiritual" moans, telling me, "Ah--oh my...your eyes...Ah--oh my...your eyes...there's something about you...." Of course, I had previously given the man $5, making him then, I suppose, some sort of prostitute of the ego, as he had been paid to say those things for my "benefit." Back in the garden, I wondered if the squirrel might want something from me as well. But squirrels do not smoke--I know that; and to my knowledge, squirrels are not particularly fond of apple juice(was on my last glass at this point); and a squirrel would definitely not find much use for "any part of a dollar." So he must have wanted nothing more from me than the return of the stare, a silent meeting of eyes to express a basic "hello" or "thank you" or whatever, because we both existed in this world and we both seemed to be happy with that fact.
Just then a young man in dark sunglasses strode by, frightening the squirrel into a very strange looking hopscotch out of the tree and across the top of the fence along the garden perimeter--gone; the man continued up the sidewalk towards the garden, and I scurried back inside of the apartment, empty and alone. I peaked out the kitchen window to see if the squirrel had returned; in the squirrel's place was the same man who had frightened the squirrel away, and whose presence had caused me to lose interest in remaining in the garden. He was sitting in the exact chair which I had sat, and the garden didn't look as pretty to me anymore. I walked away from the window.
Enjoy,
Benjamin Font
***Excerpt from a work in progress called, "I Am No One," subtitled, "an imaginary memoir."
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
En Route No. 1(part two)
Suddenly nature communicated(and more about this later--later!), sweeping through the parlor car after all the bluedawn yawns were worked out completely and everything -one was coming to life. I was dreaming about fucking that hillside--had forgotten how soft they were in California, forgotten their folds like those on the behinds of big beautiful women!, like those shaping their breasts, like those creasing the tight skin covering their ribcages; had forgotten the subtle, palatable changes depending on the time of day and weather.
And then the trees were talking, one with that slouched over, hangdog expression of his, watching his pal, old Pink, vomit into a river all bent over; another, singlehandedly, was an entire funeral procession, with his branches pulled tightly inward, his chest-trunk sunken in almost, and gnarled so much that the already deep greens deepened further until black.
Hovering over water--I looked down in the shimmery backwash, and below the bridge I saw my brother; he had crumpled up his body like a drunk or a scaregull, ass on cement structure protruding above the water's surface, back against some rotting wood posts. On second look, it was not my brother--it was a life preserver.
Gathering closer, the train bent up ahead rounding the curve; humps of earth popped up from nowhere, topped with the down of cute green kittens; and off shore there's tha tankers!; and it was low tide so I, personally, could see 100,000 rubber car-tires in dispose, sticking in the mud.
And, of course, entering slowly then into the cloud, the growing heaviness in atmosphere, the parlor car darkening with the dream, the world of all those ghosts, obscure and well-known.
I'm amazed if anyone had the patience--aside from myself--to read this; and, to be frank, I did not actually have the patience to read it even, I simply jotted it down here and there, and typed it up mindlessly, wishing I had more apple juice. So, soon again,
Benjamin Font
To look forward to: the reading tomorrow at 5pm, Sacred Grounds Cafe, San Francisco; and, "later--later!"
And then the trees were talking, one with that slouched over, hangdog expression of his, watching his pal, old Pink, vomit into a river all bent over; another, singlehandedly, was an entire funeral procession, with his branches pulled tightly inward, his chest-trunk sunken in almost, and gnarled so much that the already deep greens deepened further until black.
Hovering over water--I looked down in the shimmery backwash, and below the bridge I saw my brother; he had crumpled up his body like a drunk or a scaregull, ass on cement structure protruding above the water's surface, back against some rotting wood posts. On second look, it was not my brother--it was a life preserver.
Gathering closer, the train bent up ahead rounding the curve; humps of earth popped up from nowhere, topped with the down of cute green kittens; and off shore there's tha tankers!; and it was low tide so I, personally, could see 100,000 rubber car-tires in dispose, sticking in the mud.
And, of course, entering slowly then into the cloud, the growing heaviness in atmosphere, the parlor car darkening with the dream, the world of all those ghosts, obscure and well-known.
I'm amazed if anyone had the patience--aside from myself--to read this; and, to be frank, I did not actually have the patience to read it even, I simply jotted it down here and there, and typed it up mindlessly, wishing I had more apple juice. So, soon again,
Benjamin Font
To look forward to: the reading tomorrow at 5pm, Sacred Grounds Cafe, San Francisco; and, "later--later!"
Monday, March 29, 2010
En Route No. 1(part one)
By way of a called-off wedding in New York I was escorted on the onset of my trip--from Ashland, Or. to San Francisco--by odd conversations in a limousine, a tiny deaf/mute man in a silk hat, an enchanting sense of sadness and nostalgia(the suicide always present), and other well-phrased occurrences as told by Salinger's "Buddy Glass," concerning his brother "Seymour," though without ever physically bringing him into play. Spatially, of course, this comment makes no sense, but to the avid reader, or even the casual one, this will be unsterstood as a simple truth about traveling: as your body moves, so does your brain move, albeit on typically abstract paths, that are often subject to be led by any semi-coherent piece of "literature," books of all sorts really, which then pose as if not fully, surely a large part of the landscape of your travels. I say, "any semi-coherent piece of 'literature,'" but it should be made clear--though I'm sure it is already(earlier mention of Salinger)--that I am partial to the engrossing lines of America's older literary caste.
[I am legally restricted from quoting any part of the work I would like to here, but I urge anyone reading this to take the time--now--to quickly read Little, Brown and Company's 1963 edition of J.D. Salinger's "Raise High The Roofbeam, Carpenters," and "Seymour--An Introduction" beginning with the first complete sentence on pg 97 and ending with a certain gift from the author on pg 98. Thank you for complying.]
No one writes like that anymore. Most are taught a different(though all the same) way of writing--a way of cold detachment, or "un-attachment." Aside from the period, punctuation is too scary; sentences must not run on, or back-track, or side-track. Everything must be terse. Cinematic. Cutting. Derogatory. Like so.
I have known someone to often quote a professor of theirs as saying, "I love the 50's--nothing happened!" Although it is, without a doubt, no longer the 50's, I, too, love them and am apt to pretend: keeping memories in tangible photographs, not digital which can be removed from the world with a click of a button; making phonecalls from roadside payphones, not any- and everywhere from cellular; a suitcase almost too heavy to carry, but who needs wheels, and why mention anything else--the point has been taken as far as I'd like to take it. However, I should mention, for the sake of honesty, that a certain thin device that can be held in the lap(and is in front of me at present as I type up my longhand) and will communicate to anyone, anywhere, stands as the obvioust testament that you can never completely escape the "actual" times--but isn't this just an extension of the imagination? a place where only the things you want to exist, do(ignoring for now the nightmares knows as "viruses")? The answer, I promise you, is yes.
My brother says I ritualize everything; he also says(which no shit I agree with) that this is a better way to live. As I was thinking of those words, along with the wedding, and the suicide, I raised my eyes from New York and found myself on a fairly modern looking bus as far as the 1950's are concerned, riding directly behind the driver, and looking out the rain-splashed windows onto snowy road shoulders and ice-covered ponds--in the last days of March, mind you--climbing in altitude on "Dead Indian Rd.," What-the-fuck America, toward Klamath Falls for my connecting train to--San Francisco? Oakland?
[Oakland. I talked to the lady-attendant who gave me a pillow just as I was writing that second question mark--yes, on the train; forgive me for jumping ahead--and she said I could forego the the transfer back to bus for SF and stay aboard the train til Oakland instead, where I had learned there were keys to an empty apartment hidden away for me.]
There are certain places, even when you are physically in their presence, that never quite fully enter your "reality"; for me, Klamath Falls was one of those places:
Entering town, you are confronted by rain-washed, wind-whipped visions of desolation--typical sites of rundown buildings, closed-up businesses and the like, railyards of rust and debris; all things associated with failed commercialism, a seemingly "disappeared" working class, and general sadness.
We were deposited at a tiny shuttle-depot in the middle of that blown out grey mess with four hours until the train came. Like in a foreign country where they try to exploit you for your monies, "free" cab rides were offered to the so-called downtown area where restaurants, I'm sure, were waiting to pay the cabbies for bringing them customers they could overcharge(maybe fair game; it's not really for me to say...but something unsavory about it). I heard the busdriver tell a girl she oughtn't go downtown though, oughtn't go walking by herself, and certainly oughtn't go down any alleys for fear of falling on a syringe(!)--Klamath Falls. I, along with this girl, took the busdriver's advice and stayed cooped up at the depot watching televised movies I'm too embarrassed to name and eating some of my tiny sandwiches of peppered beef jerky on a baguette that I had packed into my bag.
Time passed slowly--you bet. Finally, we were told the train station was open and they would now be taking us over there. We put our bags in the taxi out front and take us they did on an absurd ride that involved two immediate turns, both to the right, which landed us directly behind the depot building. And there we were at the train station.
On top of everything, when I went out back to have a smoke(first surgeon general's warning put out in 1964(I believe), so no problem to me in the 50's) before the train arrived, I watched a massive freight train pass by and for a full minute there were these double-stacked cars on which in giant lettering read: "DO NOT HUMP." That is absolutely what it said. And sound advice, kids--every action has its consequence.
[I am legally restricted from quoting any part of the work I would like to here, but I urge anyone reading this to take the time--now--to quickly read Little, Brown and Company's 1963 edition of J.D. Salinger's "Raise High The Roofbeam, Carpenters," and "Seymour--An Introduction" beginning with the first complete sentence on pg 97 and ending with a certain gift from the author on pg 98. Thank you for complying.]
No one writes like that anymore. Most are taught a different(though all the same) way of writing--a way of cold detachment, or "un-attachment." Aside from the period, punctuation is too scary; sentences must not run on, or back-track, or side-track. Everything must be terse. Cinematic. Cutting. Derogatory. Like so.
I have known someone to often quote a professor of theirs as saying, "I love the 50's--nothing happened!" Although it is, without a doubt, no longer the 50's, I, too, love them and am apt to pretend: keeping memories in tangible photographs, not digital which can be removed from the world with a click of a button; making phonecalls from roadside payphones, not any- and everywhere from cellular; a suitcase almost too heavy to carry, but who needs wheels, and why mention anything else--the point has been taken as far as I'd like to take it. However, I should mention, for the sake of honesty, that a certain thin device that can be held in the lap(and is in front of me at present as I type up my longhand) and will communicate to anyone, anywhere, stands as the obvioust testament that you can never completely escape the "actual" times--but isn't this just an extension of the imagination? a place where only the things you want to exist, do(ignoring for now the nightmares knows as "viruses")? The answer, I promise you, is yes.
My brother says I ritualize everything; he also says(which no shit I agree with) that this is a better way to live. As I was thinking of those words, along with the wedding, and the suicide, I raised my eyes from New York and found myself on a fairly modern looking bus as far as the 1950's are concerned, riding directly behind the driver, and looking out the rain-splashed windows onto snowy road shoulders and ice-covered ponds--in the last days of March, mind you--climbing in altitude on "Dead Indian Rd.," What-the-fuck America, toward Klamath Falls for my connecting train to--San Francisco? Oakland?
[Oakland. I talked to the lady-attendant who gave me a pillow just as I was writing that second question mark--yes, on the train; forgive me for jumping ahead--and she said I could forego the the transfer back to bus for SF and stay aboard the train til Oakland instead, where I had learned there were keys to an empty apartment hidden away for me.]
There are certain places, even when you are physically in their presence, that never quite fully enter your "reality"; for me, Klamath Falls was one of those places:
Entering town, you are confronted by rain-washed, wind-whipped visions of desolation--typical sites of rundown buildings, closed-up businesses and the like, railyards of rust and debris; all things associated with failed commercialism, a seemingly "disappeared" working class, and general sadness.
We were deposited at a tiny shuttle-depot in the middle of that blown out grey mess with four hours until the train came. Like in a foreign country where they try to exploit you for your monies, "free" cab rides were offered to the so-called downtown area where restaurants, I'm sure, were waiting to pay the cabbies for bringing them customers they could overcharge(maybe fair game; it's not really for me to say...but something unsavory about it). I heard the busdriver tell a girl she oughtn't go downtown though, oughtn't go walking by herself, and certainly oughtn't go down any alleys for fear of falling on a syringe(!)--Klamath Falls. I, along with this girl, took the busdriver's advice and stayed cooped up at the depot watching televised movies I'm too embarrassed to name and eating some of my tiny sandwiches of peppered beef jerky on a baguette that I had packed into my bag.
Time passed slowly--you bet. Finally, we were told the train station was open and they would now be taking us over there. We put our bags in the taxi out front and take us they did on an absurd ride that involved two immediate turns, both to the right, which landed us directly behind the depot building. And there we were at the train station.
On top of everything, when I went out back to have a smoke(first surgeon general's warning put out in 1964(I believe), so no problem to me in the 50's) before the train arrived, I watched a massive freight train pass by and for a full minute there were these double-stacked cars on which in giant lettering read: "DO NOT HUMP." That is absolutely what it said. And sound advice, kids--every action has its consequence.
Friday, March 26, 2010
First Reading, Drinking
Walked six miles through the countryside in rain mixed with hail, our wool coats with their hoods pulled up, the leather attache being carried over-shoulder heavy with a quantity of books there was no way would sell, and dark spots showing on the leather as the scary possibility of rain seeping through and ruining all those brand new books so toiled over; we walked six miles, my brother and I, just to get to the pub for the First Reading, feeling like peasant Irishmen and announcing that feeling for good measure because we felt it was needed. "There's my man with the freckles," said the grocery store clerk, jogging by. "Must need a pint real bad ta be walking in this weather!" So it was. We could've driven into town and not drank, but we preferred to walk--that pint was sounding good.
Followed Ashland Creek past green fields with smooth stones where beasts graze, broken down Yeoman homes with outhouses and all, signposts that said "Loafers Lane," the busted screen door swung wide open and stuck that way; and there's the sheep there looking like they needed to be sheared, so whispered, "Don't be scared, fluffy sheep, I'll steal your wool slowly" while also being whispered was the threat, "I'll slaughter ya and cook ya in the ground for eight hours then throw ya over a giant bed of basmati rice!"; and there's the llamas there not doing a damn but staying dry under noisy tin roofs--make faces at 'em, you're just kids; and there's the families in the dog park and the old man dumping the water pooled on the lid of his trashcan; and finally there's the train tracks, crossing which means you're "in town" and up ahead is the big clock on that old building just around the corner from the pub. Clock read just past four--of course, we were late. But what matter when we find that the doors to the pub are locked? No answer on the phone. Only four of us standing outside in the cold. Not a good turnout. No reading.
After a short period of vexation, the bartender showed up. Regular bartender got sick--this guy had to come fill in. He poured strong drinks, gave some for free, and a few more people showed up. Half-cocked at 5 o'clock, the reading was back on. Sold six copies of the book. And take this as it is, because six months from now that six miles will probably be twelve, that rain and hail will be snow, those few people will be a bunch, and those six copies will be, if I'm feeling alright, twenty--saying nothing of a year from now, two years, and so on.
Thank you to those of you who showed up for my first reading, and for being attentive, and for buying books. It was a good time.
Enjoy yourselves.
Benjamin Font & The Poor House
Next scheduled reading:
Wednesday, 31 March. 5pm
Sacred Grounds Cafe
2095 Hayes St., San Francisco, Ca.
Copies remaining of "In Full Bloom": 64
Followed Ashland Creek past green fields with smooth stones where beasts graze, broken down Yeoman homes with outhouses and all, signposts that said "Loafers Lane," the busted screen door swung wide open and stuck that way; and there's the sheep there looking like they needed to be sheared, so whispered, "Don't be scared, fluffy sheep, I'll steal your wool slowly" while also being whispered was the threat, "I'll slaughter ya and cook ya in the ground for eight hours then throw ya over a giant bed of basmati rice!"; and there's the llamas there not doing a damn but staying dry under noisy tin roofs--make faces at 'em, you're just kids; and there's the families in the dog park and the old man dumping the water pooled on the lid of his trashcan; and finally there's the train tracks, crossing which means you're "in town" and up ahead is the big clock on that old building just around the corner from the pub. Clock read just past four--of course, we were late. But what matter when we find that the doors to the pub are locked? No answer on the phone. Only four of us standing outside in the cold. Not a good turnout. No reading.
After a short period of vexation, the bartender showed up. Regular bartender got sick--this guy had to come fill in. He poured strong drinks, gave some for free, and a few more people showed up. Half-cocked at 5 o'clock, the reading was back on. Sold six copies of the book. And take this as it is, because six months from now that six miles will probably be twelve, that rain and hail will be snow, those few people will be a bunch, and those six copies will be, if I'm feeling alright, twenty--saying nothing of a year from now, two years, and so on.
Thank you to those of you who showed up for my first reading, and for being attentive, and for buying books. It was a good time.
Enjoy yourselves.
Benjamin Font & The Poor House
Next scheduled reading:
Wednesday, 31 March. 5pm
Sacred Grounds Cafe
2095 Hayes St., San Francisco, Ca.
Copies remaining of "In Full Bloom": 64
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
A Small Press Release: IN FULL BLOOM, A Slow-Motion Reading Tour with Benjamin Font
As stated in the Editor's Note, IN FULL BLOOM is "a letter to a certain unnamed celebrity--[beginning "Dear Mr. O------ Bloom"]--whose alleged resemblance to the author, after much distress over the issue and over his own existence, gave way to several reckless decisions and eventual catastrophe." It is also an unexpected, and unfortunate, love story.
The First Edition Mock-Up of the book(as pictured) comes in the format of 29 loose-leaf pages, along with a one page Editor's Note and individually typed front/back cover sheets, bound together by rubber bands and self-contained in a manila envelope that acts as the book cover, mimicking as closely as possible the genuine look of the "original" letter. Each copy comes signed by Font with a handwritten tag identifying it as Copy ## / 75, and can be purched for $10.
Thanks to our own investment, contributions from sponsors DIECUTSTICKERS.com and IMPERIAL MOTION Clothing, and the unfailing assistance of family and friends, Font will be traveling down the west coast for his first highly unorganized reading tour. Travel dates, confirmed readings, and other possible discreet appearances at open mics are as follows*:
Ashland, OR: 24 March - 28 March
Thursday, 25 March. 4pm.
Paddy Brennan's Irish Pub - Featured
23 Second St., Ashland, Or.
San Francisco, CA: 29 March - 2 April
Wednesday, 31 March. 5pm
Sacred Grounds Cafe - Featured
2095 Hayes St., San Francisco, Ca.
Thursday, 1 April. 7pm
Bazaar Cafe - Open Mic
5927 California St., San Francisco, Ca.
Monterey, CA: 3 April - 7 April
Wednesday, 7 April. 6.30pm
East Village Coffee Lounge - Featured
498 Washington St., Monterey, Ca.
Wednesday, 7 April. 7.30pm
East Village Coffee Lounge - Rubber Chicken Poetry Slam/Open Mic
498 Washington St., Monterey, Ca.
Los Angeles, CA area: 8 April - ?
Date & Time, TBA
Stories - Featured
1716 Sunset Blvd., Echo Park, Ca.
If you cannot make it to any of the given dates and would like a personal copy delivered to your home(+ $2 Shipping), or if you would like to host a reading either at a legitimate venue or in your home in the style of Stephen Elliot, or if you just have questions, suggestions, comments, concerns, or criticisms, then please feel free to direct them to: PoorHouse.The[at]gmail.com. We will respond in a timely and appropriate manner. Promise.
In the meantime, we will leave you with the Editor's Note to IN FULL BLOOM.
Editor's Note
The following is a letter to a certain unnamed celebrity(and any legal representatives reading over his shoulder) whose alleged resemblance to the author, after much distress over the issue and over his own existence, gave way to several reckless decisions and eventual catastrophe.
The letter was written in pencil from somewhere in Canada where the author was, at the time, a self-proclaimed fugitive. It was "smuggled" across the border into Los Angeles by unknown means, miraculously coming into the hands of the celebrity himself, whilst literary agents in the area, newspeople, filmmakers, and tabloid "journalists" all began to buzz with rumor of a scandal.
The manuscript itself contained not a single erasure, nor a single trace of hesitation on the author's part, as though every detail were not contrived, but the absolute truth as the author knew it. The only editing I have taken the liberty to perform is purely aesthetic, merely breaking up the author's long scrawl into neat, logical paragraphs; also, in keeping with the author's desire to remain anonymous to the public, I was obliged to omit the very last line of the letter, being that it was, naturally, his signature. Otherwise, the letter remains exactly as it was written.
--Benjamin Font
Early Spring 2010
Ashland, Or.
We hope to see you soon. And thanks for the support.
The Poor House
*Remember to check back for updates on readings and blurbs from the road.
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