Archive for Personal

Behold, Sweet Uploaded Videos!

Cruise over to the PAPP Youtube page and you’ll see a ton of newly-uploaded, albeit dated, videos from live events around town. I just found out I can indeed upload large files despite my mooching off another connection somewhere nearby. Here’s one particularly fond memory of a collaboration with Dan Schall, performed and recorded at the beginning of June.

In other news, people are yelling down in the street beneath my house. And in other, other news, tomorrow I’m going to be meeting up with some poets and handing out broadsides of my work (I’m going to refrain from posting my broadside until I’ve got videos and pictures from the event as it goes down tomorrow).

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Excrescences of the Phone Cam

This cell phone photo series, which takes from eight months of cell phone pictures wasn’t really inspired by anything in particular; it was more of the lack of any good ideas surrounding the great Bachelard quotes that I had sitting around, cited in my notebook, in my post-Poetics of Space reading. With all these random cultural snaps taken around Philadelphia, I had to put them to use. There will be a bigger slideshow project produced for the Fringe Festival in September, and a larger poetry project created with the significantly longer Bachelard quotes.

01

“If we cannot imagine, we cannot foresee.” – XXXIV

02

“All aggression, whether it comes from man or from the world, is of animal origin.” – 44

03

“Life begins less by reaching upward, than by turning upon itself.” – 106

04

“Well-being takes us back to the primitiveness of the refuge.” – 91

05

“In order to surpass, one must first enlarge.” – 112

06

“Beauty of substance is added to beauty of geometrical form.” – 127

07

“If need be, mere absurdity can be a source of freedom.” – 150

08

“We seek to determine being and, in so doing, transcend all situations, to give a situation of all situations.” – 212

09

“If there exists a border-line surface between such an inside and an outside, this surface is painful on both sides.” – 218

10

“But is he who opens a door and he who closes it the same being?” – 224

11

“And then, onto what, toward what, do doors open? Do they open for the world of men, or for the world of solitude?” – 224

12

“We have to designate the space of our immobility by making it the space of our being.” – 137

13

“The two kinds of space, intimate space and exterior space, keep encouraging each other, as it were, in their growth.” – 201

14

“There is consolation in knowing that one is in an atmosphere of calm, in a narrow space.” – 229

15

“Through its light alone, the house becomes human. It sees like a man. It is an eye open to night.” – 35

16

“The house helps us to say: I will be an inhabitant of the world, in spite of the world.” – 46-47

17

“In the realm of absolute imagination, we remain young late in life.” – 33

18

“Images are more demanding than ideas.” – 79

19

“Exaggeration is always at the summit of any living image.” – 80

20

“A wardrobe’s inner space is also intimate space, space that is not open to just anybody.” – 78

21

“The lock doesn’t exist that could resist absolute violence, and all locks are an invitation to thieves.” – 81

22

“Here the past, the present and a future are condensed. Thus the casket is memory of what is immemorial.” – 84

23

“Mankind’s nest, like his world, is never finished. And imagination helps us to continue it.” – 104

24

“For one “living” shell, how many dead ones there are! For one inhabited shell, how many empty!” – 107

25

“Words are clamor-filled shells.” – 179

Created by Gregory Bem in June 2009.

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My May Poem

It is 2009 and you and I struggle with the same things

we struggled with last year and the year before and

for example I read Simic’s translation of Janevski, Slavko

called the Bandit Wind and remember nothing about it

and yet I also read Iain Banks’s the Wasp Factory

and there’s something about that which I do remember.

Perhaps it’s because I read the former several months ago,

or perhaps it’s because there is rarely envigoration,

or perhaps it’s because Wasp takes place in Scotland

instead of the cruel cold cut region of Macedonia, where

love surely cannot exist and neither can humans, really.

But I thank Andrew for the exotic verse tome since surely

it has affected my life in some way beyond my memory.

I sit here getting ready to watch the Wire while beyond

the fence behind my house (which I never bothered

checking out since I’ve been here, since October) children

play on a court behind their school with the sun bright.

It’s 5:16pm but feels like noon and I’m afraid of dusk

and I am afraid that my inspiration will heave away

like a sigh around the block, air slowly releasing, children

going to their own homes, to be with their families, friends,

while I watch about Baltimore, read manuscripts, and

get ready to go get coffee with a communist downtown.

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Two Poems for Two Birthdays

Hopefully the recipients, those honored in the poems, won’t read these before the birthdays occur.

“How We Hold”
for Katie on her 19th birthday

Inside, the trees drip their last rain,
the branches dried quickly in neon.
The things we do are blankets wrapped
around the things we choose to hide.
What is the intersection like before
we don our fabrics and warmths?
There was once the picture of cars
stopped at their respective sides, lights
yellowing to red before pause and halt.
Now there is the picture of the blue
walls in this house blue and nude.
No one has put up art in this castle,
but there is a five-blade white fan
hanging on the ceiling with its lights.
The fan slides air gently down to skin,
leaving a chill as residual as its hum.
Perhaps inside the house the trees
are dreaming in large ocean waves,
or clipping their branches like a doo.
Each moment we become crafters
shaping the ether into fresh models.
Life becomes more about clay than
about life, though everything is deniable.
When walking along the street, does
each dime turn its face up to face you?
In the rain the sun pressurizes after
the panic of isolation leaving us waiting.
On a school’s whiteboard a markered
sol wore a pair of shades and smiled.
Across the room on another board
a small cross was drawn beneath a tree.
The trees are not yet shedding their skins,
turning brown and baring secrets out,
but as ents their imagery is still based on
subtraction, white space between limbs,
even if white is the green of jungles.
The house was built around the trees
for all to notice that the house was built.
Open the door or the window, or break
the wall down to watch the trees live.

—–

“How We Had: A Memory of Gorham, Maine”
for Robert Frazier on his 63rd birthday

In the hollow of the trees
where does the strength come from?

How we had those jingles of glass
during the epigraphic earthquakes.

Is the strength noticed through ruby rays
that perusing our porch before dusk?

Is it in the paws of the wild family dog
trekking across the open lawns?

Beneath the bending branches
many names have been made new,

and many have been forgotten or dried-out,
but we still live to see the order of terms.

An undisclosed corner has different sides
to which may be appropriately pierced.

Do you sit with eyes pacific and shut
or do are they always wrenched open?

Those colors of the evening walls
are like gold feet intruding property.

The rush of the blood to the head is too quick,
too quick to be judged before dawn.

The evening’s reds move along transposing
like the reeds and the bramble in summer.

Then with sunset gone we notice the buglers,
birds who have started their evening tunes.

Among the dark figures of all the boundaries,
we discover to have a full throttle of sound.

It may be night but it is not symbolic night.
It is the time of cheerful parties and swaggers.

Outside remains but we wait to think of it,
reflecting on the gold dust replacing red.

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On Reviews

I have found it excruciatingly difficult to review any of the fiction I have been reading since taking a more active conversation role with the communists. Quite unfortunate, but I have been reading nonetheless.

Lolita was great. A worthy follow-up to my Nabokovian introduction via the Defense. A compiled accordion of quotes I pulled from my dusty, old and tattered copy (analogous in many ways to Humbert Humbert, our dirty, old, and quite perverted protagonist narrator) can be found here.

I also read through, with agony and pleasure, Saul Bellow’s Herzog, a sprawling work based in Chicago, New York, and even Philadelphia. Who knows when and how that behemoth of mental treachery can be approached–with every day I think, I’m losing more and more of this. It’s a labyrinth I don’t know I should venture back into. But the summation is this: written in the late 50s, it’s a modern American writer’s response to the problem novels of Thomas Mann and the 19th C. Russians. Go humanism, go Romanticism and Enlightenment.

In other news, there were some cell phone poems recently posted and some work poems, based on a new and simple exercise that is both humbling and enough distraction from the trauma of working retail. See below for an abstract and link to more creative work.

In otherly news:

Free Zinn available for reading.

Speaking of free political texts?

Videos from the Dodge Poetry Festival–it’s like you are really there in one of the chairs dreaming about some pleasing verse, and where did the fashion sense of artists go?! Poets need to start acting like clowns and zigzags once in a while!

and PS: Winnie the who?

Two segments of recent creativity:

“Because it’s just not for”

In response to her mother,
who stood outside the bookstore,
looking at the palisade of red
romance novels and green mysteries,
who asked with a grave monotony
of the store next door to me
that I don’t like to think about,
because it’s just not for me,
“What’s in there?” the girl
all pinks and sweatpants,
wearing her smile like a saber,
lazily responded, destroying
both my moment and my ease:
“Beautiful diamonds and stuff.”

From “After Ringing Up Jena Swan”:

I

Her bright magenta pea coat
wraps tightly around her
frame like skin, skin whipping
around like raw flesh hanging
in flaps but youthful and fresh still
and being the best for everyone’s
eyes as a choice garment or cloth
blossom not matching her any
better than how it’s supposed to.

(read more here at In Memory of My Feelings)

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2008 Music Albums: A Visual Overview

It was a pretty good year in music, I’d say.

Deuces Wild by Vast Aire

Rook by Shearwater

Limbo Panto by Wild Beasts

Songs in A & E by Spiritualized

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Alegranza by El Guincho

Heretic Pride by the Mountain Goats

Black Wooden Ceiling Opening by Mount Eerie

That Lucky Old Sun by Brian Wilson

In Ear Park by Department of Eagles

Bury the Cynics by the Ugly Sparrows

Parallax Error Beheads You by Max Tundra

The Stand-Ins by Okkervil River

Exit (American Import Version) by Shugo Tokumaru

Fleet Foxes by Fleet Foxes

Feed the Animals by Girl Talk

Water Curses by Animal Collective

Matador Singles by Jay Reatard

The Carter 3 by Lil Wayne

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Skeletal Lamping by Of Montreal

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Reading My Way Through 2008

So  I was an idiot and didn’t record all the books I read since January of this year. The most unfortunate part of this negligence is not being able to record all the books I read in my last semester of school. But maybe that’s unfortunate, as putting all my thesis reading on display might not be the wisest move!

So on with the post-college reading list for 2008! I used my Goodreads account to record most of the books I read since the summer. So what follows is an incomplete list, to say the least, with about one line to summarize my experience with that book (it keeps the memory digging to a minimum).

The books are loosely in a chronological order:

Vladimir Mayakovsky: Listen! Early Poems

This incredible and required book of verse from Russia’s own Soviet/Avant Guard poet can be read over and over again, which is what’s happening, even now.

D. H. Lawrence: Sons and Lovers

This archaic book is the key to the more important works by D. H. Lawrence, providing a nice, pre-modern look at woman’s action, sexual expression, and rough working-class life.

Juliana Spahr: Things of Each Possible Relation Hashing Against One Another

Spahr weaves her lines around and around in such an organic process that the most I got out of this book was the sheer daunting potential of verse.

CAConrad: Deviant Propulsion: Poems

Conrad’s first major work of poetry is 21st century rebellion under the mystical influences of gay sexuality, Philadelphia regionalism, and the powers of history.

Vladimir Nabokov: Tyrants Destroyed and Other Stories

This classic collection has unfortunately fallen to my poor memory–I do recommend it, however, but not for the title story, which was too abstract to keep with other, stronger works by Nabokov.

David Foster Wallace: Oblivion

The late, great DFW uses novella-length short stories to convey how the errors of relationships, insight, and the viral mentality in groups of people will not necessarily destroy or decay, but will transform all aspects of life in the world. The best part is that the reader will probably be shunned away from easy access to just how the world is working–a brilliant self-defense mechanism.

Franz Kafka: The Trial

Perhaps Kafka’s greatest or most-renowned story second only to the Metamorphosis, this book was a great influence on my work-life depression for over a month.

Denis Johnson: Tree of Smoke

An epic yet still overrated story on a psychological operations unit in Vietnam during the war, which found its best qualities in the gritty/realistic everyday life of not only the Americans but the Vietnamese, British, and Canadian–this book best taught me that Vietnam was a combination of being lost–on a war level but also on a personal level.

Tom Pickard: The Dark Months of May

After being influenced to buy this over Pickard’s more recent book, I read through it several times falling in love with the anti-heros dominating the verse. The songs here are both short and direct, while remaining the utter potency of sexually empowered beings living in a dark world of loneliness and individuality.

Frank Sherlock and Brett Evans: Ready-To-Eat Individual

Though I only read through this once, when I should have read through it several times as I found many parallels between it and my older writing, this book of verse, chronicling post-Katrina New Orleans life on the street, with the people, combines abstract hyper-thoughts, poems that are both spontaneously abstract but hold dominant images, with the vernacular speech of the individuals the poets were writing around.

CAConrad: (Soma)tic Midge

The opener was a dedication to Jonathan Williams, and the only disappointing part of this book was the size–too short, too short! Each alternating colored poem is a wonderful weave of the poet as scientist, as mystic, as traveler, as being completely united with the universe.

Natasha Trethewey: Native Guard

Documenting the South both in the present and during the Civil War, Tretheway finds her voice in crisp though hardened, disconnected poems, leaving for the reader the fragility of images, the sterility of time, and a bogus level of quiet in a usually-loud environment.

Pam Brown: True Thoughts

Being the book of poetry that has taken up many of my months this past autumn, I have found love in the abstractions, the disconnect of lines and thoughts, philosophy and image and experience documented–all qualities that make the poems light, carefree, and at the same time present the conflicts of art and philosophy.

John Steinbeck: The Pearl

Though a bit simplistic in its language and style, Steinbeck’s short story/novella is as allegorically important as his novels, bridging the East and West while presenting the difficulties of both.

Arthur Phillips: Prague

This was my most recent “for fun” novel, and it was fun, though at times it didn’t seem like Phillips actually lived in Budapest, and could only describe fictional lives of expats based on his experiences with being a tourist.

John Steinbeck: The Red Pony

As more traditional Steinbeck, this novel takes a boy’s life in four segments and teaches lessons respectively, though it would have been nice if the book as a whole was more connected and secure.

John Kennedy Toole: A Confederacy of Dunces

I was surprised to have not read this sooner since it was recommended to me about four years ago; however, now that I have read it, I cannot figure out how its importance was not proclaimed more frequently to me in all my own past adventures.

A. R. Ammons: Selected Poems

This nature poet first found himself in my life randomly, after hearing about him through Bill Corbett’s poetry. Now I read with fervor and have taken a graceful appreciation of a more profound, normal-human-being-approach to nature poetry; the fact that Ammons can take on philosophy from a scientific approach is also quite attractive.

Charles Simic: The Voice at 3:00 AM: Selected and New Poems

Randomly discovering Simic as well, I have found more parallels between his work and my own than any other previous poet I’ve taken a liking to–the poems in this collection are hit in miss, though, some striking me more as important, dark, brooding past-time poetry while others try to hard to please, and noticeably fail.

Books taking me to 2009:

D. H. Lawrence: The Rainbow

Charles Reznikoff: The Poems of Charles Reznikoff 1918 – 1975

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Poetry Migration and Dust-Covers

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A vibratious message to those visiting The Stale:

All my newly-crafted poetic works, as well as all the revisions of my dusty old written things, are now, for the time being and perhaps permanently, being posted on the collaborative poetry/culture blog, In Memory of My Feelings, which is moderated by and includes the work of one Jeff Brennan. This is better than you think. It is also better than I think.

In addition to the poems concerning urban living that Jeff and I write, you may also stumble upon the work of other young creators, which presently includes a certain Maria Winters, who is attending the School of the Arts Institute of Chicago (SAIC), where she conducts great visual and written creativity.

You can also find Alex Ruggeri’s work on this blog. Alex is a teacher in Peabody, Massachusetts, and loves propagating authority, influence, and inspiration. Other contributors may arise as life continues.

And for now, due to time and sanity constraints, PhillyWords, my blog documenting my travels and life in Philadelphia, has a thin digital sheet covering it; I may post there in the future, but there is absolutely no way to maintain it at the moment, so it will remain in storage for an unknown amount of time.

Signed,

Gregory Bem

PS: Lone-Byte Press is planning to release a series of e-chapbooks in the very near future, which will include a follow-up to TXT MSSG. Stay tuned.

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Mid Morning Scrambler (1)

Spare parts
    urban mountain
  time to climb
ignore the legs
    dream of faults
  a hazy edge
           wheels spinning
turnstiles glistening
              watch band tight
gut too saggy
       half eaten bread
  days of life
          teasing boredom
yet wide awake
     behind Mr. Bloom

Call forward
         shaped back
time over present lapped

  Buses free today
Sweat cooled to
  Chill opened up for

         Sit in silence
      Conversation
          Jazz music sits
    A stilled memory
      Pair of wake
Waking perplexity

  Need for transit
    for better place
 and better mind
    Sparks and spread
this is outward
this tale beckons

Problem child
     Life pen to turn
Lights off to shy air
     Bring me the rising
Light on some dead
7 Bodies, 7 stabs
 Tokyo’s neon erupts
Volcano in pitch black
   Tribes open fire
That planet side
  That planet rubdown
Cop rub down
    Let go my belt
 Oustanding hat trick
    On poke of jags
Flora on flora
     Come back to bullet
Change water shirt
  Turn on eyesight
Release nominatives
  Trigger the wretched
Bloom half of all

Price of development
Sheer sheen wood
Bow down to feet
Postulate for posture
Poor cannon fodder
And behind us too
Limits for projects
Tasty as derivation
Parallax prestige please
Impartial, me there
All this waterfront noise
Weeks of the Wendigo
Up on the city
Fire spokes belatedly bore
Abhorring the speaker
Perchance you as medicine
The youthful grimace giant
Perpetual pardon flanks
And my right yawn too
Sunder down the suds
Take along tie-down, flakes
The ride and a balance

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How much would that feed a bulimic?

The next few days, as tight wads of questions, will be expansive.  An accordion of change.

A spitfire end to the college chapter.  How much longer do these systems hold strong?

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