It's the weather that makes Los Angeles an extraordinary place, some say. The perpetual sunshine, seeming to make promises that, by all probability, will never be kept. Only it's easy to forget about the city's reputation for being unreliable, and the nauseating affect of being unable to take It at its word, when all that sunlight is blaring in your eyes. You avert your gaze though - to the pretty girl walking down the sidewalk here(she looks terribly old when you get close up), to the pretty girl sitting at the table there(she has an obnoxious laugh, an obvious moron), to the big billboards advertising movies that will soon be in theaters near you(can't believe they made them, and at so much cost!), to the Hollywood sign, through the haze on the hill, which incites everyone to say they've made it(being facetious, of course); essentially, you avert your gaze to any- and everything that promises even the tiniest bit of possibility and you hang on to it.
Then the "perpetual sunshine" fails to come through one day too, and the clouds roll in in giant, cold grey wisps, like steel wool strung apart, wet and nearly freezing over, and the rain comes down, always surprising everyone as if it were the very first time it had ever rained.
When it rains here everything changes. What usually shines brightly harsh golden yellows then glimmers all dull blues, reflecting only the stoplights and the headlights from traffic that is invariably backed up, and the hazy shadows of residents and tourists alike who seem to hover through the rain like ghosts. Sunglasses are taken off, ridding sight of that thin but affecting lens that seems always to remove individuals slightly from their surroundings; consequently, immediacies become restored to their rightful places, become more clear, more "real." The city is exposed for what it truly is and becomes ordinary and bleak. Bleak not in the old world Russian or modern day Bulgarian sense, but in the 1940's American romantic sense. Existence hardly goes any further than what happens in front of you and what happens in your brain.
It felt good, settling into my seat on the bus, in the rain, for the half hour long ride from West Hollywood to the stop where I would catch the metro into Downtown. I was reading "De Daumiere's Blue Period" - a good story - and felt as though I were all alone in transit. I had gotten to the part where De Daumier sits quietly at his desk in the main room of the Arts Institute(a university which teaches art via airmail from a two bedroom apartment in New York; the only other "instructors" besides himself, and also the founders of the school itself, were an old married Chinese couple), having just sharpened all of his pencils and laid them out neatly in front of him and knew not what else to do but light up a cigarette. I think the head of the school, who had been at a desk just a few feet away - and silent until then - came over to De Daumiere's desk to tell him that there would be no smoking in his "classroom."
These details of De Daumiere's story, if they matter at all, might be confused some due to the disorienting nature of what occurred a few moments later.
The bus hadn't traveled very far from the stop where I had gotten on when it happened. A smell wafted through the bus that made me look up from the book. I couldn't find the source of the smell immediately, but I could see it traveling in a wave like those seen in sports stadiums across the country all the time, only in this instance it was not the two hands being thrown up simultaneously, then put back down, it was a swift movement of one hand to the face, the thumb and forefinger pinching the nose, and a look of disgust. And as that wave finally reached me I saw him - a man very much sunken into himself from malnutrition, wearing rags and a scraggly beard, holding a plastic sack full of godknowswhat. By this time the smell had become overbearing - it was evident that he had just recently shit himself - but I did not follow suit of the rest of the passengers on the bus. He sat down in a seat that situated him in a such a way that he was staring directly at me in profile; I couldn't bring myself to humiliate him with the gesture of pinching my nose shut.
I fought through the smell as best as I could, trying to continue to read with the book repositioned slightly in the window so that the coat sleeve of the arm holding the book covered my nostrils somewhat - it never would have been enough. I read the same paragraph over and over and yet did not really read it once. My sight had become blurry. My stomach was nearly turning over. Some of the other passengers opened the windows near their seat as far as they could physically go - just a crack. The man muttered to himself incoherently. The bus driver pulled over unannounced. In a hurry, he walked the length of the bus, shaking his head as he opened every last window on his rig. When he came to the window above the man, he opened it vehemently, saying so others could hear, "Definitely open this one!" The bus driver retook his position at the wheel. The man sat still, staring forward with vacant, jaundiced eyes.
The thought occurred to me, unjustified at the moment, really, "Why do these things always happen to me? Why of all places did this man choose to sit there, right across from me?" Logically though, the man had probably just chosen that particular seat because it was in the back of the bus and had the fewest number of passengers around it(though he would've cleared any nearby seats with his smell) - the same reason I had chosen my own. His next move, however, still does not make any sense to me, though in hindsight I will admit that my thoughts may have somehow been related to the cause.
His next move was only a few blocks up. It began with a ghastly muttering under his breath and him rising to his feet(his legs wobbling beneath him), and ended with him sitting down in the seat directly beside me. I had to quickly snatch up my coattails to prevent him from sitting on them. The passengers in front and in back of me moved to different seats. I could hear a few of them laugh. It took immense concentration, but I did not react - not a single blink, nor a single gag(though my reflex is normally weak). I simply stared straight ahead as the bus continued forward and this man, it seemed, continued to inch closer and closer to my seat.
A few blocks more was all I could take. No amount of compassion could have kept in my seat.
The bus came to a stop and I stood up. The man took no notice of me. I politely attempted to inform him that I was getting off - still nothing from him. The bus had only been stopped for a moment or two, I'm sure, but it felt as though it had been stopped forever and it would certainly be taking off again shortly. I had to act with haste. I threw my bag on the seat in the row in front of mine, then I grabbed onto the railing that extends the length of the bus at head level for those passengers that are forced to stand when the bus is packed, and I pulled myself up and over the man's crumpled, shit-stinking frame like some sort of frantic acrobat making his last act of desperation to save his life. It was terribly sad, but again I could hear the other passengers laugh as I grabbed my bag of the seat in one quick sweep of the arm and pushed through the back doors onto the street.
I was still about six blocks away from my usual stop at the Santa Monica/Vermont metro station, and much further from downtown. It was still raining. I lit a cigarette as I began to walk towards the metro stop. Neither the rain nor the cigarette could wipe away the smell that had permeated my brain. That smell, and the image of that man - so shrunken - it had created an overwhelming feeling of despondency within me. The sun would come out again later, and distractions would present themselves everywhere - but what matter? Walking towards the metro in the rain, having a cigarette, young and still in good health, good-looking enough, things felt bleak. And not bleak in the 1940's American romantic sense either, but more so in the modern day Bulgarian sense - the sense that a rainy day in Los Angeles has the potential to evoke.
Later, waiting on the platform at the metro, I was crouched against a wall, somewhat in a daze. Someone walked by me - a fellow passenger from earlier. He addressed me in passing, "That was some funny shit!" I have no idea how I reacted. Maybe I laughed with him, a little at least; maybe I looked up with surprise and ultimately said not a word to him. Either way, it seemed the most bizarre thing he could have said to me just then.
----
Hope everyone's set aside a few dollars for the new "SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF THE EARTH" audiobook, set to be digitally released at the end of the month. If all of us here at The Poor House can get our shit together.
Stay tuned
&
Enjoy,
Benjamin Font
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
From Slow-Motion to Dead Stop
Memory: tiniest thing can spark it.
Like the sangria I'm drinking on the balcony of a second story apartment in a building somewhere in West Hollywood, from which the lives being lived within 14 different apartments are visible at times - separate, yet connected. It makes me recall the fever I once had from drinking too much boxed sangria. For three days straight I drank nothing but the stuff - too sweet, and strong even. I was traveling at the time, sweating profusely from the build up of sangria in my system as I stood in line at the train station. I was out of sorts as I came to the ticket window, asking the man, with difficulty, politely as I could, "Do you speak Spanish?" I had meant to ask if he spoke English. The fact that he spoke Spanish was self-evident. He was a portly little Spanish man with a mustache. I was in Spain.
A few moments later - having stammered through the rest of the conversation with the man at the ticket window in order to learn that my train wouldn't be leaving from Barcelona for another three hours - I sat waiting for my train, embarrassed, the sweat now soaking through both of my shirts, and a pigeon took a giant shit on my bag. I nearly cried as I cleaned it off at the bathroom sink.
And before that, alone in my hotel room(basement, no windows), while the sangria still flowed box after box. I sat on the bed, allowing the sangria to wash down only saltine crackers. I could hear a couple in one of the adjoining rooms fucking, gasping incoherently to each other in Spanish. I closed my eyes and said a thousand Hail Marys.
That phrase, those words(in Latin though - the words that are now inked into my chest) - "Ave Maria." The same words I muttered to myself years ago in wintertime Lincoln, Ne., sitting up late night by candle light(in the 21st century!) in the frost covered window, staring across the train yard at the blinking red light I perceived to be the devil's beacon and believing myself to live out(through visions) the horrors of the boy I knew at thirteen who killed himself. I wrote it all down then. Eventually published it too in the post script to my first book, The Good Life of A Holy Idiot - it was entitled, "Requiem For Christopher."
Then there is the subject of these books of mine themselves, the publishing of which has led to many disintegrated relationships, romantic or otherwise, permanent or temporary. And how some folks have scoffed at the most recent book at the sound of the title alone - "I Am No One - an imaginary memoir." The word "memoir" inciting them to say, "Does the experience of a twenty-four year old in America really lend itself to create an engaging and insightful memoir?"
I think about every single person I have encountered while in their latter years. I think about the stories they tell of their youth, with more air in their lungs than they know what to do with and big smiles on their faces. I think about how the only difference in the telling of their stories and mine is that mine are told on the fly, while they're still happening, rather than years later when details have become more cohesive due to the invention that time will allow the brain to make. It is impertinent, though, for hindsight to play a vital role in a true story; in fact, it is better that they be told without it, when foreshadowing doesn't come of an oafish, conscientious hand, but of the subtle, intricate order of nature.
It should be mentioned that the result of this - this writing about youth while still presently living it - is an odd combination of somberness and elation; it creates a strange feeling of nostalgia for the current situation, one that breaks the heart while inflating it. It also allows for sappy, dramatic sentiments(as seen previously).
Back to the balcony then. Drinking sangria.
I look back with amazement at the time that has passed. Things have happened of their own accord, and I have adapted. I became tired, or caught up. Things came to a standstill, ostensibly. I was busy: held up in Nebraska over the summer due to circumstances out of my control, a trip back to the west coast, a few readings, some books written, a movie in production, etc. My face appeared here and there, but otherwise I disappeared. But I am rested now. The plumbing has been repaired in The Poor House and all the holes in the walls have been patched up too. The refrigerator has been restocked - meats, cheeses, eggs, booze. We've got everything now. If not everything, then at least enough.
The sangria is gone. A man on his own balcony on the third floor, smoking a cigarette and thinking about god-knows-what. But the main thing is that the ball is rolling again - things are moving.
Enjoy everyone,
K. Benjamin Font
IN FULL BLOOM, having sold out of the 100 hard copies, is now available for download.
I AM NO ONE - AN IMAGINARY MEMOIR, published in Nov. 2010, is available in limited handmade editions.
The American Haiku - a beautiful thing. Daily six word stories.
Like the sangria I'm drinking on the balcony of a second story apartment in a building somewhere in West Hollywood, from which the lives being lived within 14 different apartments are visible at times - separate, yet connected. It makes me recall the fever I once had from drinking too much boxed sangria. For three days straight I drank nothing but the stuff - too sweet, and strong even. I was traveling at the time, sweating profusely from the build up of sangria in my system as I stood in line at the train station. I was out of sorts as I came to the ticket window, asking the man, with difficulty, politely as I could, "Do you speak Spanish?" I had meant to ask if he spoke English. The fact that he spoke Spanish was self-evident. He was a portly little Spanish man with a mustache. I was in Spain.
A few moments later - having stammered through the rest of the conversation with the man at the ticket window in order to learn that my train wouldn't be leaving from Barcelona for another three hours - I sat waiting for my train, embarrassed, the sweat now soaking through both of my shirts, and a pigeon took a giant shit on my bag. I nearly cried as I cleaned it off at the bathroom sink.
And before that, alone in my hotel room(basement, no windows), while the sangria still flowed box after box. I sat on the bed, allowing the sangria to wash down only saltine crackers. I could hear a couple in one of the adjoining rooms fucking, gasping incoherently to each other in Spanish. I closed my eyes and said a thousand Hail Marys.
That phrase, those words(in Latin though - the words that are now inked into my chest) - "Ave Maria." The same words I muttered to myself years ago in wintertime Lincoln, Ne., sitting up late night by candle light(in the 21st century!) in the frost covered window, staring across the train yard at the blinking red light I perceived to be the devil's beacon and believing myself to live out(through visions) the horrors of the boy I knew at thirteen who killed himself. I wrote it all down then. Eventually published it too in the post script to my first book, The Good Life of A Holy Idiot - it was entitled, "Requiem For Christopher."
Then there is the subject of these books of mine themselves, the publishing of which has led to many disintegrated relationships, romantic or otherwise, permanent or temporary. And how some folks have scoffed at the most recent book at the sound of the title alone - "I Am No One - an imaginary memoir." The word "memoir" inciting them to say, "Does the experience of a twenty-four year old in America really lend itself to create an engaging and insightful memoir?"
I think about every single person I have encountered while in their latter years. I think about the stories they tell of their youth, with more air in their lungs than they know what to do with and big smiles on their faces. I think about how the only difference in the telling of their stories and mine is that mine are told on the fly, while they're still happening, rather than years later when details have become more cohesive due to the invention that time will allow the brain to make. It is impertinent, though, for hindsight to play a vital role in a true story; in fact, it is better that they be told without it, when foreshadowing doesn't come of an oafish, conscientious hand, but of the subtle, intricate order of nature.
It should be mentioned that the result of this - this writing about youth while still presently living it - is an odd combination of somberness and elation; it creates a strange feeling of nostalgia for the current situation, one that breaks the heart while inflating it. It also allows for sappy, dramatic sentiments(as seen previously).
Back to the balcony then. Drinking sangria.
I look back with amazement at the time that has passed. Things have happened of their own accord, and I have adapted. I became tired, or caught up. Things came to a standstill, ostensibly. I was busy: held up in Nebraska over the summer due to circumstances out of my control, a trip back to the west coast, a few readings, some books written, a movie in production, etc. My face appeared here and there, but otherwise I disappeared. But I am rested now. The plumbing has been repaired in The Poor House and all the holes in the walls have been patched up too. The refrigerator has been restocked - meats, cheeses, eggs, booze. We've got everything now. If not everything, then at least enough.
The sangria is gone. A man on his own balcony on the third floor, smoking a cigarette and thinking about god-knows-what. But the main thing is that the ball is rolling again - things are moving.
Enjoy everyone,
K. Benjamin Font
IN FULL BLOOM, having sold out of the 100 hard copies, is now available for download.
I AM NO ONE - AN IMAGINARY MEMOIR, published in Nov. 2010, is available in limited handmade editions.
The American Haiku - a beautiful thing. Daily six word stories.
Monday, July 12, 2010
How Terrible We've Become
We'll sweat it out then, in cold, on the interstate. Have a hundred miniature heart attacks while trying to sleep in the passenger seat, passing by the green, blue, and brown empty space that makes up the slow climb from the plains to the Rockies. There might be birds flying from roadside trees. There might be a dead deer, or a dead dog, on the shoulder. There might be some cows milling about, though the wind blowing over the prairie sweeps away the smell before it makes it through the vents and into the car. Who knows. The kid is sleeping too, in the backseat--no nightmares for him though.
A long ten days in my hometown and I am hearing folks talking--though they're not talking--from my paralyzed half-sleep and I think that I am going to die. Ten days of heavy drinking after what feels like ten years(though it is closer to six) of heavy drinking--heavier than usual in these past few months--and that's what happens when you try to come off it: you try to sleep and your body shakes, your heart speeds up, your breathing is uneven, and folks who aren't really there are talking to you. The conversations come back. Things you've all said before at one time or another--they're repeated. They're saying things about poor kids in such and such country, about books you need to read("I really think you'd love it"), about the girl they fucked last Tuesday, the girl they fucked last Wednesday, and the girl they fucked last night; they're saying things about the places they've been, about the places you need to go("I really think you'd love it"), about the things they're going to do, and by all probability won't. And as they're saying these things, they are standing over you, sitting next to you, crouching behind you; they are touching your arms and your legs and your face--the pressure is unbearable, what with the booze coming out of your system, through your pores, and your body trying desperately to regain its equilibrium(only a sober one now). There's absolutely no chance. I am going to die.
Another thing comes up while in that condition. It is that unearthly heaviness so familiar from your youth, from those times when you stared into the mirror and felt that you might not exist, or nothing existed, or what have you(you were young), from those times when you jerked off and felt so lonely it hurt, from those times when you decided it was a mistake as you were making it; that unearthly heaviness so familiar to you because you've felt it for years, on and off, when in the unholy night you are visited by what you think is a demon that's come to rape you for the wrongs it's glad you've done, or you are visited by what you think is an angel that's come to cry over you for all the wrongs it's disappointed you've done. There's no difference in these things anyway. They're all horrible, and they're all real. You no longer have any friends in all of this, and no family. There is no one left to love you.
After you switch from the passenger seat to the wheel--miraculously making it through those first startling hours of sobriety--and you've sweated out what you hope to be everything(it never is), a good meal is necessary even if it must be choked down. With food in your belly the distraction of driving is good then, and you feel silly for ever having had the thought that no one loves you, or you don't have any friends, or family. You watch the foothills begin to take shape just a little ways into Colorado from Nebraska, and the big clouds in the sky form what will soon be a thunderstorm, and you are fine for a moment--you can breathe, you can smile. Everything will be fine.
We get back to the house(an hour west of Denver) at dusk, and as I pull the car into the garage a fearful notion, or memory really, is struck in me: This is not over; This will take a few days at least, I know, and please lord--whatever that means, as in my habit I always say--help me. The house is dark and there are still some dishes in the sink from when we left. The kid's toys are scattered all around the kitchen and living room. The garage door will not close--it is coming down on top of the trunk of the car because I did not pull in far enough. I am real quiet about that...
Mother and child are quick up the stairs. Father is home from work soon after and follows them up. They have their own little family to fall back on. I am alone though, in the living room(don't want to go to the bedroom where, in my first nights here, I had already had several unsettling dreams), attempting to stay awake long enough so that exhaustion will overtake me and put me out like a light. Can't handle the prospect of struggling through hours of silence, attempting to overcome the hypersensitivity of my detoxing body and of my healing conscience. I need the aid of the witless drone from the TV and the flashing blue light in the dark to provide imagery that is separate from my own memory and therefore will not cause nightmares. But that is never the case. It is impossible to escape the things that are already in your brain. Nonetheless, I tried. I see four o'clock in the morning before I finally slip back into the delirium I experienced earlier in the car.
There was more sweat then, in cold, on the couch in the living room of someone else's home. There were a hundred miniature deaths caused by heart failure, caused by an aneurism, caused by the unearthly heaviness created by the beings in my dreams:
A young group of folks with painted faces(not COTE), they wanted to kill me. I was being accused of theft--some trivial item, a lighter maybe--and they were closing in on me, around me, snarling in a different language. But there was one girl who had taken a liking to me, with a foreign name and a pretty face--even behind the paint. She took me away from everyone, into her arms, and she spoke kindly to me, smiling, telling me not to worry about anything. Oh, this beautiful girl, she wanted me to fuck her but I couldn't--not in good conscience; when she learned that I wouldn't, she changed. I was ridiculed for not allowing myself to be "barbaric," among other things, and she laughed at me. They all laughed at me. The whole thing had been a scheme amongst them for me to be frightened into fucking this "kind" woman with unspeakable diseases.
I ran. I took the first bus--to Rhode Island? A Rhode Island that would never be reached. I found all of my old friends on the bus. And the bus was going through Africa, in some unbelievable countryside where it was said we were not welcome. Spears with poison tips were being thrown by the natives running alongside our bus, our old wooden ship on wheels, and as they came at us we would trip on the shackles attached to our seats, and fall, and the spears just kept on coming...
I am awake now. It is the morning and the kid is running about. He wants to go outside. So Father--who has the day off from work--and I take him to the park. He plays mainly by himself, but occasionally asks us to go down the slide with him--we concede, and go down the slide. Afterwards, we go to the grocery store. We pack the cart and then stock the cabinets and the fridge in the house. And I've said nothing of the dreams I've been having, of the physical ailments I've been experiencing. What can I say--that I've been drinking too much and am now suffering because of it? that I've wrecked my body and done irreparable things concerning my conscience and am now horrified of myself and existence in general? You can't say those things to a father on a Sunday afternoon while his kid needs a diaper change and is asking fort strawberry milk. You just have to endure them silently, and remember that it, like everything, will pass; and you have to shake your head to acknowledge just how terrible we've become, that this continuous cycle of self-destruction is not just idiotic, but normal.
//
In the words of Rumi: "But listen to me; for one moment, quit being sad. Hear blessings dropping their blossoms all around you. God." Alright, old boy--whatever you say.
Enjoy yourselves, and your summers.
With love,
and Thanks to everyone in Lincoln,
K. Benjamin Font
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Keep The Light On and an Excerpt from Track 1 of "Sons and Daughters of The Earth"
We have fallen behind. At least a month has gone missing--maybe more. It's not a strange thing to happen when you find yourself in Los Angeles--especially in Echo Park--being welcomed by the many warm arms of the cult known as The Sons and Daughters of The Earth(a very loose veil covering their real name).
There are details that must, for the moment, be spared as concerning this chunk of missing time. The welcoming ceremony, for sure, must be omitted; as for the rest, it will come out soon enough in a book entitled, simply, "Sons and Daughters of The Earth." I will provide an excerpt of the first chapter(Track 1) of this book in another minute or two.
Before I do so, I would like to mention that for all of the things I must refrain from saying presently, there is one thing that cannot be put off any longer--the best poem I saw in the fast life of the floating world:
The rain from the night before had carried into the next afternoon. Outside of a cafe, there was a small group of young folks drinking whiskey and water out of styrofoam cups, discussing the different ways of romanticizing their own lives. As talk of handjobs behind dumpsters and other sordid business arose, an old Filipino man came walking very slowly around the corner. He was hunched over in his wool suit, further than a man in good health should be, and he held his umbrella, inexplicably, under his arm; the rain could be seen matting his hair to his head, and dripping through the thick, dark creases in his face and on his neck. He was walking slow enough to see each and every drop. For twenty minutes he stayed in view, in motion, crossing the street at a snail's pace to eventually get to the bus stop. And when he finally arrived, it was in perfect sync with the arrival of the bus. It pulled to the curb and stopped. He nearly crawled up the steps and paid the driver. Then all at once, the bus began moving, carrying the old Filipino man out of sight, back in the direction he had come.
At this, someone at the table, in between sips from their styrofoam cup, said very quietly, "We're all trying to get back to the place where we've come." The remark was heard, but not commented on. It was clear to everyone present that the party who had spoken was either intoxicated or heartbroken--either could be easily ignored. But they all internalized it anyway. They thought about the places where they wished they could go back to; they daydreamed about walking out of the dark back to their homes; and they all whispered to their loved ones in their heads, "Yes, I've been drinking a lot. But I never did those things you thought I did. Let me come back to you someday. Please, keep the light on." Surely, they all must have been both a little intoxicated and heartbroken--what young person in America isn't?
Sons and Daughters of The Earth
(To be released as an audiobook, on vinyl, sometime after my return to LA in the fall. Stay tuned for details on the fundraiser/live event, donation opportunities, and possible involvement in different aspects of the project itself.)
TRACK 1
Partially hidden away on a residential street in Echo Park in California, nestled behind another home at an unnamed 1/2 address on Lone Shore Ave., at the bottom of a steeply graded empty lot where coyotes graze at night, there is a house growing from the side of a giant avocado tree. And in this treehouse there once lived the "cult"--though more accurately described as a family--known as The Sons and Daughters of The Earth. They were a mix-up of 100 different species at least, consisting of your basics, such as your dogs, your cats, your turtles, your squirrels, your birds, etc., along with your more exotic types, such as your lions, your sex panthers(they do exist), your monkeys, your koalas, a single wolf that was said to be domesticated, and they were all men and women too(save for that bastard wolf), who lived together as a family until just two weeks ago to the day when they met their bizarre and untimely deaths.
The house is no longer occupied by anything representative of a family. Those who have heard rumors of the demise of The Sons and Daughters of The Earth and who have ventured into the neighborhood to attempt a glance at the place where they once lived have failed terribly at this because they cannot get through. The property is sanctioned off by investigators who at this moment still haunt the grounds, looking through every nook and cranny of the home in search of some sort of tangible clue as to why, some sort of logical explanation for their extraordinary rise and sudden fall.
//
Quickly: thank you to everyone in LA who supported me in all of the different ways that a person can be supported--I love you; also, thank you to everyone in Kerrville, Tx. who helped me through my kidnapping and assisted me in arriving safely in Colorado--I love you as well.
Ave Maria,
Benjamin Font
There are details that must, for the moment, be spared as concerning this chunk of missing time. The welcoming ceremony, for sure, must be omitted; as for the rest, it will come out soon enough in a book entitled, simply, "Sons and Daughters of The Earth." I will provide an excerpt of the first chapter(Track 1) of this book in another minute or two.
Before I do so, I would like to mention that for all of the things I must refrain from saying presently, there is one thing that cannot be put off any longer--the best poem I saw in the fast life of the floating world:
The rain from the night before had carried into the next afternoon. Outside of a cafe, there was a small group of young folks drinking whiskey and water out of styrofoam cups, discussing the different ways of romanticizing their own lives. As talk of handjobs behind dumpsters and other sordid business arose, an old Filipino man came walking very slowly around the corner. He was hunched over in his wool suit, further than a man in good health should be, and he held his umbrella, inexplicably, under his arm; the rain could be seen matting his hair to his head, and dripping through the thick, dark creases in his face and on his neck. He was walking slow enough to see each and every drop. For twenty minutes he stayed in view, in motion, crossing the street at a snail's pace to eventually get to the bus stop. And when he finally arrived, it was in perfect sync with the arrival of the bus. It pulled to the curb and stopped. He nearly crawled up the steps and paid the driver. Then all at once, the bus began moving, carrying the old Filipino man out of sight, back in the direction he had come.
At this, someone at the table, in between sips from their styrofoam cup, said very quietly, "We're all trying to get back to the place where we've come." The remark was heard, but not commented on. It was clear to everyone present that the party who had spoken was either intoxicated or heartbroken--either could be easily ignored. But they all internalized it anyway. They thought about the places where they wished they could go back to; they daydreamed about walking out of the dark back to their homes; and they all whispered to their loved ones in their heads, "Yes, I've been drinking a lot. But I never did those things you thought I did. Let me come back to you someday. Please, keep the light on." Surely, they all must have been both a little intoxicated and heartbroken--what young person in America isn't?
Sons and Daughters of The Earth
(To be released as an audiobook, on vinyl, sometime after my return to LA in the fall. Stay tuned for details on the fundraiser/live event, donation opportunities, and possible involvement in different aspects of the project itself.)
TRACK 1
Partially hidden away on a residential street in Echo Park in California, nestled behind another home at an unnamed 1/2 address on Lone Shore Ave., at the bottom of a steeply graded empty lot where coyotes graze at night, there is a house growing from the side of a giant avocado tree. And in this treehouse there once lived the "cult"--though more accurately described as a family--known as The Sons and Daughters of The Earth. They were a mix-up of 100 different species at least, consisting of your basics, such as your dogs, your cats, your turtles, your squirrels, your birds, etc., along with your more exotic types, such as your lions, your sex panthers(they do exist), your monkeys, your koalas, a single wolf that was said to be domesticated, and they were all men and women too(save for that bastard wolf), who lived together as a family until just two weeks ago to the day when they met their bizarre and untimely deaths.
The house is no longer occupied by anything representative of a family. Those who have heard rumors of the demise of The Sons and Daughters of The Earth and who have ventured into the neighborhood to attempt a glance at the place where they once lived have failed terribly at this because they cannot get through. The property is sanctioned off by investigators who at this moment still haunt the grounds, looking through every nook and cranny of the home in search of some sort of tangible clue as to why, some sort of logical explanation for their extraordinary rise and sudden fall.
//
Quickly: thank you to everyone in LA who supported me in all of the different ways that a person can be supported--I love you; also, thank you to everyone in Kerrville, Tx. who helped me through my kidnapping and assisted me in arriving safely in Colorado--I love you as well.
Ave Maria,
Benjamin Font
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
En Route No. 3
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.
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 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
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