Monthly Archives: January 2008

Privilege meme (bumped up because of edits)

This meme is from “What Privileges Do You Have?”, based on an exercise about class and privilege developed by Will Barratt, Meagan Cahill, Angie Carlen, Minnette Huck, Drew Lurker, Stacy Ploskonka at Illinois State University. If you participate in this blog game, they ask that you PLEASE acknowledge their copyright.

Bold all things that apply to you.

1. Father went to college
2. Father finished college
3. Mother went to college
4. Mother finished college
5. Have any relative who is an attorney, physician, or professor
6. Were the same or higher class than your high school teachers.
7. Had more than 50 books in your childhood home.
8. Had more than 500 books in your childhood home.
9. Were read children’s books by a parent.
10. Had lessons of any kind before you turned 18.
11. Had more than two kinds of lessons before you turned 18
12. The people in the media who dress and talk like me are portrayed positively.

13. Had a credit card with your name on it before you turned 18.
14. Your parents (or a trust) paid for the majority of your college costs.
15. Your parents (or a trust) paid for all of your college costs.
16. Went to a private high school.
17. Went to summer camp
18. Had a private tutor before you turned 18

19. Family vacations involved staying at hotels.
20. Your clothing was all bought new before you turned 18
21. Your parents bought you a car that was not a hand-me-down from them.

22. There was original art in your house when you were a child
23. You and your family lived in a single-family house.
24. Your parent(s) owned their own house or apartment before you left home.
25. You had your own room as a child.

26. You had a phone in your room before you turned 18
27. Participated in a SAT/ACT prep course.
28. Had your own TV in your room in high school
29. Owned a mutual fund or IRA in high school or college
30. Flew anywhere on a commercial airline before you turned 16
31. Went on a cruise with your family.
32. Went on more than one cruise with your family
33. Your parents took you to museums and art galleries as you grew up.
34. You were unaware of how much heating bills were for your family

ETA: Here’s my take on this meme, as I originally posted it as comments on Karen G and Bill’s blogs.

I thought it was pretty interesting, and effective in a sneaky way.

I see this meme as being as much about what kind of disposable income the family had as it is about education — perhaps more so. This is why there aren’t questions about having a library card, participation in after school programs, etc.

I think if you asked people directly about the more frivolous aspects of disposable income — toys, games, pools, house size, etc. — they’d be more apt to shade the truth.

It also has something to do with where priorities were in the family regarding the maintenance of privilege and class. A lot of these things are about exposure to the trappings of privilege, in my opinion.

In general, though, it’s mostly just not complete — but it does make you think about where the sources of privilege, and of maintaining it, are based.

Some examples:

More than 500 books implies a larger home with space available for things beyond basic living space.

A car purchased for a kid implies that there was extra money for the more expensive insurance that attaches to underage drivers.

An extra phone line for a kid’s room is an expense that can be seen as being done as much for the parent’s convenience as it is for the kid.

There’s also a thing here about what kind of money us being spent to help assure that the privileges of the family are passed on to the next generation — SAT/ACT prep, multiple types of lessons, etc.

It’s actually a pretty good indicator of at least some of where the parents were putting extra cash — what were the priorities? Immediate gratification, or perpetuating and enhancing the class status of the offspring?

Just my take on it. I think it deliberately disguises its intent to get what was going on in the family. As such, I think it’s pretty effective, if incomplete.


Protected: Did you know?

This content is password-protected. To view it, please enter the password below.


Morning question

Woke up this morning to an Internet station playing May Sarton, which reminded me of the best poetry reading I ever saw…Clark University, 1981 or so, with Gwendolyn Brooks, May Sarton, and Tillie Olson.

I had to think hard about that “best ever” designation, because I’ve seen some great ones…but I think it still stands out, even over all the great performance poets I’ve seen, even over folks like Robert Bly (sneer as you like, he’s frequently mesmerizing) and Etheridge Knight (who was intimidating as hell to a suburban 14 year old as I was at the time, but still incredibly influential).

What was the best poetry performance you ever saw?


Zero Point Zero

Hey…is that…could it be…a new column???


The Zero Point Zero Regular Column!

Very much more than Nothing!

Yup.

And tonight at Gotpoetry Live, we’ve got old school in the house: Michael Mack. C’mon down.

EDIT TO ABOVE: Michael can’t make it — we’ll come up with something fun instead. C’mon down.


Oh, almost forgot:

http://johnpowers.livejournal.com/226155.html

New feature at Gotpoetry. Check it out!


Maps 2

On the wall of the commune’s living room
someone’s pasted all the topographic maps
for the entire area, connected them carefully
and made sure that every contour line
matches its continuation on the next map.

Over time, you’ve put a pin into every place
you’ve been where something happened. You
define that broadly — place of the first
owl, the first slimemold, the orange shine
of the last place you fell and laughed about it

instead of cursing the ground itself for its treachery.
Red means good here, blue means bad, and everything
is based in silver sharp and true that leaves holes in the map
where you think you saw something meaningful once.
It’s not like there’s blood in there —

oh, there’s something seeping up from within,
but it’s clear. It’s like plasma —
there are things floating in it you can’t see, things
critical to life that are carried through you without you knowing
exactly where anything is at a given moment.


Maps

You are here. Here is
some mall, some array of
food courts and petty mayhem. You are
the man staring at the glass map
which is telling you that you are here,
but of course you knew that.

You imagine that the mall’s
on someone else’s map, a map
sitting on a lap in a Toyota
inching toward the place you are.
The Toyota’s slowing down and the driver
pitches a butt out the window to snuff it.

Heat gives way to snow-soaked cold just as
you’re losing your own fire to move —
where the hell is the bookstore in this place,
and now that you see how far it is
from here to there, do you really need
to read anything more
than you’ve already read?
Maybe you’re only here to be the vessel of frustration
for the ambiguity of red dots and yellow blocks
that promise destination, and another book
would just complicate matters.

Instead, you wish you were in
your own car and that you were passing that Toyota
going the other way, away from
your current location which is still
the place you were a minute ago.
Which way is the parking garage? You sink
back into the dots and blocks on the black glass.

You are here
and anyone who tells you
a map is not the territory is naive:
without this map would you be this antsy
that you’re not already somewhere else?
That’s a map for you: places with meaning
marked for your pleasure and convenience
with clear paths to the next place you want to be,
except that the cars on the road out there
are on different maps
and when you slump onto the hard slats
of the industrial benches before the glass
that holds you, tugged to immobility by that red dot,
you sense the number of journeys
you could be making, the number of maps
you could be looking at —
but you are here.


Cry

What was once
a mission has become
a compulsion —

I’ve stopped thinking
and feeling except in poetry,
and I am no poet, so

if You can find a way clear
to letting me go
without another word from me,

then do.


The next Duende project…

Faro and I spent the evening working on the next Duende project.

He’s creating a suite of music, probably 40 minutes long or so, for which I will write poetry from scratch. Presently, we’re thinking of a narrative piece — won’t get into the details of it just yet although there are two potential storylines to work with that may or may not end up intertwined; not sure yet.

Never done anything like this before. It’s scary, which is good for me. I think you have to scare yourself creatively all the time, so jumping off a cliff of this sort is extra good.

Tonight’s progress included laying down a bunch of rough bass tracks on the old 8-track digital recorder, just good enough for me to move to the laptop for further review so I’ve got something to work against.

We also went over some other conceptual ideas for the project, then I taught him the guitar line to the piece I just put on Myspace (“Winter Sermon”) so we could possibly play it live in the future (for the life of me I can’t do poetry and play the guitar at the same time). This means, of course, I have to pull together the improvised poem I threw down over the original track and make it tight and right.

Lots of work to do.

After we were done, we watched most of the Pats game and then some video footage of Lindsey Buckingham (God, I love to listen to and watch that guy play) and Jeff Beck with this PHENOMENAL young bass player — a 21 year old woman from Australia named Tal Wilkenfeld. Check her out if you don’t know her.

Duende’s next gig is at Jester’s Cafe in Westfield on Jan. 21. I’ll be back on later today with more info and some thoughts on this gig and venue; important stuff, I should mention.

Off to bed. GET SOME SLEEP!!!


Protected:

This content is password-protected. To view it, please enter the password below.


Protected: 9/11, again…and hopefully for the last time…

This content is password-protected. To view it, please enter the password below.


The Oldtimer Explains To The New Guy Why Gentrification Is So Difficult

She’s unloading Barbie dolls again. She does this
once or twice a year, dumping their limbless, headless bodies
off the edge of the back porch
into an old refrigerator box.

The neighbors watch her, the way we always do. Hell, I watch too.
From every building, from every roof, every window
and stoop, we watch her doing what we wish we could.
The neighbors always know the truth — that her hours of collecting

the broken toys from sad girls all over the city have led to this
again, and while we can’t imagine what drives her, we understand obsessions like hers,
obsessions like how Mary’s always calling Dali time to one and all —
“it’s eight pigeons past yesterday’s news,”

and how the mean ass beat cop is practicing the Miranda warning sotto voce
so he never gets it wrong again…”you have the right to remain
silent, anything you say…” Show me irresistible urges and I’ll show you
any down at the heels neighborhood full of mistakes no one will ever forgive.

You ought to join us. Use these words in a letter to yourself: “I was only looking for a free ride
past my own obsessions when I moved here to Anonymous, USA.” Prove to me you belong with us. You’re new here, but I bet you’ve got your own urges to deal with —
and if not, maybe you can give Barbie Girl

a hand moving that box to the garage
once it’s full which should be some time past the longhorse
vault of heaven, if Mary’s got it right today. If you’re not crazy like us,
at least prove you can hang with the gang.


Music, play on

I listened to Belly’s “Star” album in the car yesterday and had to play “Slow Dog” seven times in a row just to exhaust the excitement I was feeling before I could move on. This happens every time I play the album.

And I’m listening to a flamenco mix this morning and trying to figure out why anyone would want to listen to Jesse Cook and Ottmar Liebert when the real thing is so much more moving.

In general, this is true of my feelings about a lot of art — the good, deep, powerful stuff is so engaging that it boggles my mind that the watered down, crappy stuff gets so much more attention. Is it that people don’t like having to engage with it? Is it that the fear of having to think and feel so deeply is so powerful that it threatens? Is complexity that unwelcome?

I can’t for the life of me think of music as anything like a background to anything. It may be part of the fabric of an experience, but for me it needs to be a powerful thread in that experience, something I can focus on and zero into when I choose.

This is why I don’t listen to music as I write poems. I can’t do that. I need the space so I can dig in.

“Music should never be harmless,” said Robbie Robertson, by which he meant that no music should leave you the same after you’ve heard it. I agree.


Economy

when I put my mouth
on you

I think of the figs
and cinnamon

I can’t afford to buy
right now

and which
I don’t miss much at all


Jam Session at the Big House (revised)

On a June Sunday
a jam session
sets up
outside the
Church of the Immaculate Conception
on Elder Street.

Maggie
stubs her Djarum butts
on the lines
of her gospel.
JoJo
comes with his guitar,
needles Jesus direct
with no desire
to choke down
white bread.
Gabriel
burps his horn
and fruit bursts
from the limbs of the Bare Tree.

And Mickie
on the battered snare
holds herself tall and bold
even as she ducks out for a moment
to enter
the tomb and see
for herself
what the Madonna’s
come to at last.

Up front
the Virgin’s
downturned face
shines.

“Did you know,”
says Mickie to Mary,
“that your storied Inside
is just our Outside
that’s been approved and gilded?
It may have all happened a legend ago,
but it’s still a fact.

We’re not that
different. I could have been
you, could have let God
clasp me tight —

but the way Maggie smokes and
shouts, the communion
JoJo lets play on his face,
righteous Gabriel thinking
every hymn’s a gas
to be ignited:

how could I come in
from that hothouse
and love this too-clean cold?

Do you recognize
me, your sister, a fellow
virgin paroled by jazz
and smack? Is it too much for you to say
that the Outside is what makes
the Inside?

That Baby you had —
you gave Him up, let go
too soon because
something called you. We know
how that feels better
than almost anyone in here

except, maybe, for that former girl
in the back pew
who keeps turning her head
toward the door
and tapping her foot.”

Once she’s back Outside,
Mickie matches
JoJo run for run, and Maggie
belts a pulse across
Gabby’s fanfares.

The girl
who was once inside comes
out at the end of the service
then walks home
thinking of the shattered handcuffs
painted
on the shell of Mickie’s drum.