What happened on the journey from Monterey, Ca. to Los Angeles(Reading No Drinking in Fast-Motion?)
I wanted to be completely sober when I arrived at Union Station in LA because the old friend who would be picking me up had known me last as a very young drunk in Lincoln, Nebraska(where we first met ten years ago) and I wanted it to be clear that I had changed--mostly. So I drank nothing but water on the train, which washed down my graciously hand-packed ham sandwiches, bananas, pistachios, cheese crackers, pickles, fig newtons, and tim tams(I was truly carrying all that with me). Once I got there, and we hugged each other, then we could drink.
Between my several meals, which I spaced out considerably well over the ten hours of traveling, I became anxious(that's what happens without a nip of booze) for internal movement, something more significant to me alone, something indelibly my own. I got the idea of going into the observation car for my(the?) first reading in fast-motion. I would go into the observation car and ask a few of the folks if they'd be interested in a little entertainment--something short, sweet. I would stand on the side of the car where behind me the ocean could be seen and I would read. It may have been entrapment with the type of folks that were on this train, in this car, being that they were the too kind type, the type that can't say no, the type that will suffer through anything with a smile on their face--the type of folks who were cooing out the window, "ah, man, look at that there--ain't it beautiful?" They would have to listen then; they would be forced to listen, out of politeness if nothing else. And they would end up liking me. They would even buy my books. It's not like I would be a rich man from the sales, but at least I would be my own man, and perhaps a little richer for the experience?
What actually happened after I got the idea and went into the observation car is that I got very self-conscious and opted to sit down and stare out the window like the rest of the folks, only instead of saying it out loud, I thought to myself, "ah, man--it's beautiful." And it happened that the position I sat in was next to an Indian looking girl of thirteen who had a noticeable mustache that her parents had probably refused to let her wax at such a young age--but she would do it later on, once she was out of the house. She was certainly a self-aware little girl, and a little girl who was bold enough to strike up conversation with me. "This your first time on a train?" she inquired of me. She went on to tell me about her own experience riding on trains, which was extensive. She talked about her family in the next car. She had a notebook in her lap and had been writing in it. I asked her about the notebook. As it turned out, this girl was a "writer" too. A prolific one at that--she had already written seven books(mainly science fiction).
Naturally, I told this little girl that I was a writer as well, and told her all about the Reading (and Drinking) in Slow-Motion tour. She was fascinated(and I'm not being vain), and wanted my advice on a number of subjects. I continued to stare out the window as she spoke, not to intentionally avoid her gaze, but to intentionally avoid gazing at her mustache(I'm so sorry if you're reading this!)--I didn't want to embarrass her. Out the window opposite the ocean she pointed to a couple of deer, a fox(supposedly), and some cows. She continued to talk about her books, her inspirations, her secrets that she kept from her family--not to say that she disclosed these secrets to me(thank god), but she spoke of the idea of these secrets. She claimed to have gone so far as to have created her own language so that if anyone picked up one of her notebooks they would be lost as to what they meant. All little girls have their own languages.
It seemed preposterous to me that I should be sitting next to this thirteen year old girl, but I was extremely glad to have sat next to her. I've never been in the position of a mentor--though this was temporary--and the responsibility made me feel honorable, good. Regardless, I felt that our dialogue had run its course--in this day and age one must be careful about how much time they spend with a young girl or boy, especially when holding a copy of a book called, "God's Fool"(Julien Green's respectable biography, or life and times, of St. Francis of Assisi)--and I told her I was headed back to my seat now. I was thinking about another of my small meals. And just as I was about to leave she told me to wait, quickly tearing out the corner of one of her notebook pages; she wrote something on this torn corner of a page and handed it to me. Written on the paper was her name, her contact information, and underneath it, "aspiring author." I stuck it in my pocket and went back to my seat. Then I ate half of a ham sandwich, a handful of cheese crackers, and a banana, and felt content.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Good Times and Destitution
As concerning some of the time spent in Monterey, Ca. and more Reading and Drinking in Slow-Motion.
I.
Monterey("[the] bad habit, [the] memory, [the] nightmare"--my old, loving transfiguration of that famous "Row") is a place where, by accident, by the sheer probability of small town circumstance, you will see everyone you do or don't want to, like the inadvertent conjuring of ghosts in the pillow-laid head of a person nearing sleep. This trip was no exception to that statement.
In spite of a certain book(the one quoted above), which was considered offensive by many of my friends and family members at the time of its "release"(can you say that about self-published [adjective for the style/subject matter of my then work?), I was received well in Monterey. My arrival came with an Easter basket and several pitchers of mimosas(a tasteful omission is being made here of a revelatory talk of which the end result, I'd like to think, was the soothing of "family matters" and a heightened sense of kinship--aye, best pal?) and my departure with a bag full of goodies that kept my blood sugar steady on my train ride to LA.
In between these delicious treats, though, there was the path from Pacific Grove(where I was staying) and Monterey, which served as the collision course for imminent meetings of Person 1(a good, old friend who I had not spoken to for some time, yet immediately fell in step with to the nearest bar for beers and catching up), Person 2(an encounter I was dreading--for good reason; it made me feel like hell to recall certain casual observations made of them(without good reason I sometimes think) in the past--but who called my name amiably, hugged me, and bade me farewell with a "god bless you, and peace be with you"), and Person 3(a staple "sighting" in the town of Monterey, and a person who I was surprised to have not seen more of--a great guy). Then there was the sushi restaurant where I saw Person 4(who I am always happy to see, and who prepared--he's the sushi chef at the restaurant--and paid for a wonderful meal, which I would like to formally thank him for), and, of course, the old haunt at East Village Cafe where I, of course, again, ran into Persons 5-12(all of which were expected and pleasant--no, better than pleasant, "better than expected": right and good).
Fittingly, yes, I showed up in Monterey with very little announcement and I saw everyone; we had a good time, we enjoyed ourselves.
II.
With that in consideration, it came as no surprise to me that the reading at East Village was attended and books were sold. The folks there, being that they were friends of mine, set aside the lounge area for me with seats that I probably would not fill(and didn't--though this was the highest number of people I've read to yet), and tables that I eventually encouraged people to fill with drinks, preferably alcoholic ones, not because alcohol was necessary for them to enjoy the reading but because we were at a ga'damn cafe and you cannot just sit there without buying anything. Willingly, they complied.
Although the reading went well(next copy to be sold is 36/75), and my friends were receptive, it is painful for me to say that The Poor House remains in destitution. In LA now, funds have run considerably low, even past our means I'm afraid. We are not beggars over here, but neither are we prideful folks. Though one could say that we do pride ourselves in being "humble"--sort of. In any case, we have no shame in saying this: funds for The Poor House's Reading and Drinking in Slow-Motion Tour have finally dwindled down so far as to justify the previous use of the word, "destitution," making it nearly impossible to continue without the support of our "fans"; if you are in a position that allows you to do so, we would be extremely grateful for donations in small or large amounts that can be sent via paypal--they can be sent to: benjaminjane[at]gmail.com. Or, just buy a copy of the First Edition Mock-Up of "In Full Bloom" for $10, along with $2 for shipping, and a copy will be promptly mailed.
Thank you everyone for everything--ever.
Benjamin Font
I.
Monterey("[the] bad habit, [the] memory, [the] nightmare"--my old, loving transfiguration of that famous "Row") is a place where, by accident, by the sheer probability of small town circumstance, you will see everyone you do or don't want to, like the inadvertent conjuring of ghosts in the pillow-laid head of a person nearing sleep. This trip was no exception to that statement.
In spite of a certain book(the one quoted above), which was considered offensive by many of my friends and family members at the time of its "release"(can you say that about self-published [adjective for the style/subject matter of my then work?), I was received well in Monterey. My arrival came with an Easter basket and several pitchers of mimosas(a tasteful omission is being made here of a revelatory talk of which the end result, I'd like to think, was the soothing of "family matters" and a heightened sense of kinship--aye, best pal?) and my departure with a bag full of goodies that kept my blood sugar steady on my train ride to LA.
In between these delicious treats, though, there was the path from Pacific Grove(where I was staying) and Monterey, which served as the collision course for imminent meetings of Person 1(a good, old friend who I had not spoken to for some time, yet immediately fell in step with to the nearest bar for beers and catching up), Person 2(an encounter I was dreading--for good reason; it made me feel like hell to recall certain casual observations made of them(without good reason I sometimes think) in the past--but who called my name amiably, hugged me, and bade me farewell with a "god bless you, and peace be with you"), and Person 3(a staple "sighting" in the town of Monterey, and a person who I was surprised to have not seen more of--a great guy). Then there was the sushi restaurant where I saw Person 4(who I am always happy to see, and who prepared--he's the sushi chef at the restaurant--and paid for a wonderful meal, which I would like to formally thank him for), and, of course, the old haunt at East Village Cafe where I, of course, again, ran into Persons 5-12(all of which were expected and pleasant--no, better than pleasant, "better than expected": right and good).
Fittingly, yes, I showed up in Monterey with very little announcement and I saw everyone; we had a good time, we enjoyed ourselves.
II.
With that in consideration, it came as no surprise to me that the reading at East Village was attended and books were sold. The folks there, being that they were friends of mine, set aside the lounge area for me with seats that I probably would not fill(and didn't--though this was the highest number of people I've read to yet), and tables that I eventually encouraged people to fill with drinks, preferably alcoholic ones, not because alcohol was necessary for them to enjoy the reading but because we were at a ga'damn cafe and you cannot just sit there without buying anything. Willingly, they complied.
Although the reading went well(next copy to be sold is 36/75), and my friends were receptive, it is painful for me to say that The Poor House remains in destitution. In LA now, funds have run considerably low, even past our means I'm afraid. We are not beggars over here, but neither are we prideful folks. Though one could say that we do pride ourselves in being "humble"--sort of. In any case, we have no shame in saying this: funds for The Poor House's Reading and Drinking in Slow-Motion Tour have finally dwindled down so far as to justify the previous use of the word, "destitution," making it nearly impossible to continue without the support of our "fans"; if you are in a position that allows you to do so, we would be extremely grateful for donations in small or large amounts that can be sent via paypal--they can be sent to: benjaminjane[at]gmail.com. Or, just buy a copy of the First Edition Mock-Up of "In Full Bloom" for $10, along with $2 for shipping, and a copy will be promptly mailed.
Thank you everyone for everything--ever.
Benjamin Font
Monday, April 5, 2010
En Route No. 2
Paying no heed to particular details of travel, having--very quietly--a conversation while in motion from Oakland to Monterey, Ca.
"Forgive me, Hills. I have had impure thoughts about you. Forgive me for these thoughts and for speaking openly about them[see: "En Route No. 1(part two)"]. I was just so glad to see you again--my emotions got the better of me."
"I am feeling very sentimental today; I see you, Hills, and my hands grow cold, my palms sweaty. There is a big knot growing in my stomach. I am so happy, Hills, yet my happiness is an extremely sad one--I am just slightly broken-hearted. You see, I have left someone, again. Why are we always leaving someone? And how long must we be away from them?"
"It was over two years ago that I met this person I am at present leaving, Hills, not too far from where you sit, so perfectly still, like squatting zen giants, back on your hams in contemplation. You do not move so much. You never leave anyone, do you; people are always leaving you, aren't they. How do you feel, Hills? Is there anything you would like to talk to me about? I will give you a moment here to form a response."
"Yes, of course; you have always been the silent type. But in spite of your silence, for so it is by appearances, I think I have an idea of what you're feeling, which is most likely akin to the feeling that a certain someone is feeling about me having left. Would it be out of line to use the word "abandonment"? I am not worried about getting out of line anyway, for I, in "reality," began out of line--my only desire is to get back in. Hopefully I have not gone so far astray as to impose restrictions on my attempt to get back in--what hell that would be."
"But as I say this, Hills, I see--and remember--that you still have the cows; and these cows-- passing on from generation to generation, only leaving by way of body to kitchen table, not spirit if there is one--these cows will never actually leave you. I wish I were more like those cows, Hills. I wish I were not always leaving someone, something. The other day, pretending to be in a fairytale country, though actually in an empty lot in suburbia, I ate a yellow wildflower(don't think about the name), and chewed it up into a bright mush--then I spit it out. I could not swallow the flower. I am not a beast. Why can I not be a beast? I miss you, Hills."
*Next reading:*
Wednesday, 7 April. 6.30 pm.
East Village Coffee Lounge - Featured
498 Washington St., Monterey, Ca.
(followed by the "Rubber Chicken Poetry Slam")
Hope to see you there. Or at least someone. That someone.
Happy belated Easter.
Benjamin Font
"Forgive me, Hills. I have had impure thoughts about you. Forgive me for these thoughts and for speaking openly about them[see: "En Route No. 1(part two)"]. I was just so glad to see you again--my emotions got the better of me."
"I am feeling very sentimental today; I see you, Hills, and my hands grow cold, my palms sweaty. There is a big knot growing in my stomach. I am so happy, Hills, yet my happiness is an extremely sad one--I am just slightly broken-hearted. You see, I have left someone, again. Why are we always leaving someone? And how long must we be away from them?"
"It was over two years ago that I met this person I am at present leaving, Hills, not too far from where you sit, so perfectly still, like squatting zen giants, back on your hams in contemplation. You do not move so much. You never leave anyone, do you; people are always leaving you, aren't they. How do you feel, Hills? Is there anything you would like to talk to me about? I will give you a moment here to form a response."
"Yes, of course; you have always been the silent type. But in spite of your silence, for so it is by appearances, I think I have an idea of what you're feeling, which is most likely akin to the feeling that a certain someone is feeling about me having left. Would it be out of line to use the word "abandonment"? I am not worried about getting out of line anyway, for I, in "reality," began out of line--my only desire is to get back in. Hopefully I have not gone so far astray as to impose restrictions on my attempt to get back in--what hell that would be."
"But as I say this, Hills, I see--and remember--that you still have the cows; and these cows-- passing on from generation to generation, only leaving by way of body to kitchen table, not spirit if there is one--these cows will never actually leave you. I wish I were more like those cows, Hills. I wish I were not always leaving someone, something. The other day, pretending to be in a fairytale country, though actually in an empty lot in suburbia, I ate a yellow wildflower(don't think about the name), and chewed it up into a bright mush--then I spit it out. I could not swallow the flower. I am not a beast. Why can I not be a beast? I miss you, Hills."
*Next reading:*
Wednesday, 7 April. 6.30 pm.
East Village Coffee Lounge - Featured
498 Washington St., Monterey, Ca.
(followed by the "Rubber Chicken Poetry Slam")
Hope to see you there. Or at least someone. That someone.
Happy belated Easter.
Benjamin Font
Second Reading, Side-Step the Drinking
It is never a good sign when the proprietor--an old, smiling Chinaman--of the cafe you had arranged to read at does not remember who you are, or why you are standing in front of him; nor is it a very good sign that one must walk through the kitchen to get to the bathroom. I was no one that night--my first in San Francisco--and I piss a lot. It is bad for business when the chef's hands get too cold because of a spectral presence; and the typical customer is wary of the place if it has a haunted bathroom--so perhaps the impression I got from the Chinaman of being unwelcome at his place was grounded.
In any case, that first night in San Francisco I read to two old friends, a Chinaman who could not even see me, and half a dozen folks with bright white hair, "spectacles," and big bellies. The Chinaman, being that he could not see me, also could not hear me; my friends liked what I had to say--but friends are usually good in that way; and then there was one old man--just after the reading, though before I had stepped down from the dim limelight--there was this one old man who decided to challenge me to a literary pissing contest.
Old Man: "Every time you say 'Mr. Bloom,' I can't help but laugh; you know there's a 'Mr. Bloom' in James Joyce's 'Ulysses,' don't you--have you ever read James Joyce's 'Ulysses'--huh?"
I do piss a lot--and enjoy the feeling of letting out a good, long piss--but this kind of pissing did not interest me. I understand you're familiar with a classic--do you want to mention its name again? Talk about the author? Maybe you would also like to make mention of Proust? Tell me about how Joyce and Proust never met, and tell me what it would have been like had they met? Or maybe you would like to have "Nabokov" on your tongue--"Lolita" in particular would certainly be appropriate.
None of that was said. Instead, Me(to the Old Man): "The 'Mr. Bloom' in my story is more of a pop-culture reference than literary--but thank you for adding that [unnecessary] dimension to it."
Old Man: "Oh, you're welcome."
Second night in San Francisco was an open mic, mostly music. The coordinator and host, a very nice woman named Pat, worked me in while the room was full. Only had four minutes to read. I announced, "I am [who I am], and I am not a musician," then got on with the two selections I chose to read, appropriately, from my book, "Songs: I Can't Sing." These folks took it well; these folks were good folks, even though none of them gave any financial aid to The Poor House. Not a single book sold. The house is still broke, a mess. Bills are piling up. There's a good chance they will not get paid, goddamn.
In any case, that first night in San Francisco I read to two old friends, a Chinaman who could not even see me, and half a dozen folks with bright white hair, "spectacles," and big bellies. The Chinaman, being that he could not see me, also could not hear me; my friends liked what I had to say--but friends are usually good in that way; and then there was one old man--just after the reading, though before I had stepped down from the dim limelight--there was this one old man who decided to challenge me to a literary pissing contest.
Old Man: "Every time you say 'Mr. Bloom,' I can't help but laugh; you know there's a 'Mr. Bloom' in James Joyce's 'Ulysses,' don't you--have you ever read James Joyce's 'Ulysses'--huh?"
I do piss a lot--and enjoy the feeling of letting out a good, long piss--but this kind of pissing did not interest me. I understand you're familiar with a classic--do you want to mention its name again? Talk about the author? Maybe you would also like to make mention of Proust? Tell me about how Joyce and Proust never met, and tell me what it would have been like had they met? Or maybe you would like to have "Nabokov" on your tongue--"Lolita" in particular would certainly be appropriate.
None of that was said. Instead, Me(to the Old Man): "The 'Mr. Bloom' in my story is more of a pop-culture reference than literary--but thank you for adding that [unnecessary] dimension to it."
Old Man: "Oh, you're welcome."
Second night in San Francisco was an open mic, mostly music. The coordinator and host, a very nice woman named Pat, worked me in while the room was full. Only had four minutes to read. I announced, "I am [who I am], and I am not a musician," then got on with the two selections I chose to read, appropriately, from my book, "Songs: I Can't Sing." These folks took it well; these folks were good folks, even though none of them gave any financial aid to The Poor House. Not a single book sold. The house is still broke, a mess. Bills are piling up. There's a good chance they will not get paid, goddamn.
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