OK, here’s the other reason I’m becoming a recluse…and why I wasn’t at poetry yet again.

My wife’s got something going on — some sort of neurological condition that’s causing tachycardia, an unreasonable speeding up of her heartbeat at random moments.

She’s had this for a while, and it’s usually controllable with meds; it’s just that over the past two weeks, it’s gotten to be a pretty regular occurrence.

We spent yesterday in an emergency room with a particularly severe attack.

She goes for more medical consults tomorrow, will probably be getting a CAT scan, an upper GI (it’s linked to some serious acid reflux), maybe a gastroscopy.

I’m trying to stick close to home until the crisis is over.

All the doctors are saying it’s troubling but not life-threatening, so we’re not really worried; nonetheless, it’s debilitating when it happens, and is causing a lot of stress — which doesn’t help.

Add my own stuff with the meds and the bipolar into the mix, and it’s not the easiest time here.

So if I’m not around much, not commenting much, etc…that’s why.

The older I get, the more I seek simplicity in everything — in taste, in food, in lifestyle, in relationships with friends and family.

I’ve become a virtual recluse as a result. Never the world’s most social guy, I have developed this shunning of contact that is leading me to odd places, usually alone.

The one exception to this yearning for simplicity seems to be in the subject matter of the poetry that I want to write these days. I am caught in some deep lust for complexity these days — trying to capture in extraordinarily simple language the nuances of human experience.

The key to this is the simple language. I need an instrument that’s easy to play, because the melodies that are coming will be hard to follow.

I don’t know where I’m heading anymore, but I know I can’t turn back

I used to blog here from time to time.

This has been a week from hell in so many ways I can’t begin to describe it. So I won’t.

It was redeemed, however, by an absolutely fun feature last night with Dawn Gabriel( ) at Hampshire College in Amherst, MA.

After an absolutely GREAT open mike with some truly outstanding poetry from the kids, Dawn and I did a split set that included TWO duets ( I know, this from the avowed hater of multi-voice work — but hey, you gotta take chances, right?) — we did Dawn’s great “Liturgy” and my ” As Slow As Possible”, and I think they went over well.

Gotta get back out there on Feb 22 to see Daphne G (we talked you up big to everyone, Ms. G).

More later…

i’m ok.

adjusting to ramped up meds, sick with a head cold, wife’s sick, and i’m in a four day training session at work.

blegh.

victor — again, i’m so sorry I missed the feature. i’ll fill in the details when i see you.

dawn — will be in touch tomorrow night once I know my final schedule for thursday.

be well, all.

was interesting.

A small crowd of 6 gathered for “charm” night (we do a theme at every reading). During the course of the night, we got into a discussion about how our work had changed over time.

I’m not sure I told the truth about that when I said that I thought I was being more careful and economical with language.

I know I was telling the truth when I said I had lost a sense of abandon: an ability to just let go and write like a wild fuck, chasing the words where they go and determining the destination after I get there.

I’ve gained control only to lose a measure of freedom.

An even trade in terms of art?

We’ll see.

Can I just say that I hate George Bush?

Not his policies or his actions alone…I hate the man himself.

This is a long standing hatred. It goes back to before he was even running for President…

It goes back to Karla Faye Tucker, a woman put to death in Texas on Bush’s watch.

I’m opposed to capital punishment…but that’s not why I hate George Bush. I can understand someone who believes in the death penalty — I don’t agree with it, but I do understand the conceptual arguments for it, and can see how someone could be in favor.

I can see how a person in the governor’s chair could enforce the law. I can.

What I will never understand, and never forgive, is when said governor, with the power of life and death in his hand, MOCKS the woman he is about to kill.

Mocks her, trivializes her death…acts as if her death was unimportant. I can understand anger at her crimes; I do not understand the barbarian snicker at the meting out of rough justice.

It should never look like fun, George. Get it?

This is evil. Evil.

I do not understand “Bring it on” for one who will not feel the pain his words invite. I do not understand the fawning, simpering, cavalier attitudes of one who holds such power in his hands.

Gravity, ponderous gravity…I want such a man, one in such a position, to feel the weight of his decisions.

George Bush, I am sure, feels nothing of this.

Character issue, indeed.

First off:

Recommend to me:

1. A movie.
2. A book.
3. A musical artist, song, or album.
4. An LJ user not on my friends list.

Copy and paste with your answers in my comments. Then copy and paste the questions in your own journal.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I went to see “Jacques Brel…” on Saturday night.

In the play (revue? show?) is a song called “Marieke” which is a meditation on loss of a loved one in war. Heartbreaking.

Most of the songs are translated from French; this one song includes lines in Dutch and German and French. No need to translate.

This got me thinking — it has always felt to me that certain languages seem more effective at delivering certain emotional states than others. For instance, French to me has always seemed amenable to expressing a sort of bittersweet longing that we don’t capture well in English.

This is not at all to say that other languages are incapable of a variety of nuances — far from it; and I certainly don’t want this to sound as if I’m stereotyping the speakers of a given language, because that’s not what I think I’m getting at.

I think this is a sort of version of the Sapir-Whorf hypothesis that language affects thought — that the words used in a given language can affect what the speaker of that language thinks. It’s the old “12 Inuit words for snow” legend: that because the words are there, the characteristics are more visible.

But I don’t trust myself here…I’m curious:

1. Am I merely projecting American attitudes?

2. Am I totally full of shit?

3. If I’m not: what does English do well at?

Seems like time to do some event recounting.

THURSDAY: Went out after work to see Seren Divine’s last Worcester feature before she moves to NYC. A good set, lots of backpages stuff. I’m going to really miss Seren — we’ve always been close, sharing lots of poetry experiences together and becoming good friends in the process.

FRIDAY: Work, then eat sushi and hang out at home.

SATURDAY: Went to Boston to see “Jacques Brel Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris”, which was fun and a good excuse to get together with friends and eat great Indian food and plan for our fall trip to Portugal and Spain. Three couples, two weeks, a jones for sangria, fado, and flamenco, and anniversary/honeymoons with any luck (Dan and Mike are planning to get married before the trip as long as the Massachusetts legislature doesn’t fuck with the SJC decision, and Annie and I will be celebrating our 20th anniversary…)

SUNDAY: Hang in Boston, come home, hit the sack early (Sorry Asylum, I just was too tired).

Today: Work. Work. Work.

More later.

Captain Kangaroo died.

So did Ann Miller.

I feel really, really old.

Been thinking a lot about linkage:

of

globalization to Westernization to corporatization to commercialism to conformism to cross-cultural imperialism to ignorance of cultural literacy to reduction of indigenous cultures to inroads made by media conglomerates

to

the trivialization and co-optation of genuine feeling and spontaneous art

to

the pop-cultural primacy of the Holy Greed Ghost, haunting the world for so long and so hard

that

it now only takes one second to reach out and touch anyone you know and therefore the speed of connection reduces the need to consider its impact

while

millions remain locked away from the means of connection, health, justice, peace, freedom, and voice

just as

million of others do not understand the difference between their definition of poverty and the truth of most poverty

which

renders them incapable of seeing the Other: the person
they might have been except for
accidents of birth

And if all this ends up sounding like
a Slam Poem
And if all this makes you want to say
that it’s just too much to deal with

then

get out of here and
buy the thing that makes you forget
it has been said

I haven’t slept for about 36 hours now…I think it’s about the re-introduction of Prozac to the drug regimen, and I think it will wear off, but…

I couldn’t watch the State of the Union last night because I couldn’t sit still long enough to concentrate on it.

I used to be able to sit and make connections among the crap he spewed and see how it all fit because I was so up on everything.

Now, I just wanna scream.

And I’ve got another day of the 2 day class I’m training tomorrow. Which is why I’m not around much right now.

Thank God I’m working with another trainer, who knows what’s going on and keeps me on track, bless her.

I really am ok, maybe even a bit better; still it’s the teeth grinding side effects of this shit that get you.

Grrr…

I have a confession to make.

I have barely been following the election so far, beyond a vague and disorganized support (read, checkbook support and comments at lunch) for Kucinich.

I know this makes me a bad person. Or at least, a typical American.

It’s also so unlike me. I’m one of those guys who has a huge activist background, and involvement in electoral politics was always a piece of that.

Truth is, I haven’t been able to focus for longer than half an hour on anything in so many months, I feel like I’m completely out of the loop.

This is disturbing to me. It reminds me of the combination of circumstances that made me drop out of my Amnesty International work years ago, when I couldn’t do much more than focus on my navel and my sorrow for more than a few minutes at a time.

My therapist, knowing this, has asked me if the general air of dread in the country has contributed to my depression; she even is pushing the idea that I’m undergoing some kind of delayed reaction to the stress I dealt with on 9/11 and in the weeks following, especially all those weeks of “travel education” (read: grief counseling/shouting matches) I ran for all the folks here at work who lost friends and colleagues. Sessions I wasn’t really qualified to run, but which I jumped in and did like a good soldier, because, you know, I’m like that.

I don’t know the answer. I do know that half serious job offer in Toronto is looking good.

At any rate, the new drugs do seem to be having some mild effect at the moment; I’m trusting that will pick up shortly, increase with the rising dosages, and my concentration levels will come back up to speed.

Then I might be able to partake in democracy and debate more readily.

Imagine that: political fervor renewed by prescription.

Don’t you wish it was that easy? I know I do.

The punk anthology I just received for Christmas includes a book with the usual critical puffery.

In it, however, is this observation: that when “punk” considered itself a “movement”, it allowed for a great range of individual styles and expressions under its umbrella; but when it began to act like a “genre” it ossified, and you end up with pop punk and Maximum RnR fanaticism.

It strikes me that it’s not the most original insight, but that doesn’t make it less valid; it also strikes me that you could comfortably insert the word “slam” in place of “punk” and not damage the truth of the statement too much.

Updated, as it was on the slam list earlier today.

This is a REPOST, with a couple of significant edits, of an earlier post regarding submissions to the Worcester Review’s performance poetry edition, scheduled to be published and available for February of 2005. I hope it answers some of the questions I’ve received backchannel.

PLEASE discard any previous communication, as this one has the most current information. I am bolding the changes for your reference.

Again: don’t hesitate to e-mail me for more information, forward this anywhere you think it needs to be seen, and PLEASE SUBMIT!!!!

T

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I’ve got the new medications right in front of me.

No major changes…for now; dosages adjusted and a shift in timing…for now; a plan to ramp up slowly over the next 4 weeks with existing meds. The new guy is cautious, wants to tweak existing things to see the result and work from there.

But once we see how that goes…there may be big things in store farther down the line. My diagnosis has shifted from cyclothymia to bipolar II, with the emphasis increasing on the depressive side of the cycle; and that implies a shift, eventually, toward Lamictal, Zyprexa, and Depacote.

Lovely. More weight gain in store.

On the other hand, the new doctor is really really good…and surprise, he’s made a specialty of really getting the link between creative ability and this illness. Has read all the various memoirs and books of essays, and runs a group for depressives in creative fields.

I’m still scared, but I think this bodes well for the future.