"The writer must believe that what he is doing is the most important thing in the world. And he must hold to this illusion even when he knows it is not true." - John Steinbeck
Friday, December 19, 2008
Creative Space
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Life and Art in the Kingdom of Normal
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Writer's block
It's not that simple when you've lost your creative spark. When what inspires you doesn't surround you anylonger, you'll search for anything that may get the 'juices' flowing once again.
It starts to feel lost.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Trying
think of something sweet
to say to you,
but I don't remember the ABCs.
I'm trying to
carry the weight of the world
for you,
but it brings me to my knees.
I'm trying to
hold your hand in the snow,
but all I can feel
is the palm of your glove.
I'm trying to
look at the photos you send,
but I can't seem to find your smile.
I'm looking over
all the letters you send,
but I can't read between the lines.
I'm trying to
think of something better than today,
but it seems too far away.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Pulitzer My Finger
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Our World is Blurry to the Fish
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Sean Connery Sings Love Songs
Once, during the first few months of my friends arrival in Japan, he was walking one way while three teenage boys, who were riding their bikes and were approaching him head-on. He had made up his mind that we wasn't going to get out of the way this time, and right as the middle boy's bike approached, he dropped his shoulder and sent the kid flying.
"I thought you didn't speak Japanese very well?" I replied.
"I don't." he answered.
I lit a cigarette and rolled the window down just enough to let the smoke escape into the air. "Your Japanese sounded good at class the other day," I said, trying to encourage him.
"Trust me, it isn't. In order to read the paper here, I need to know 2000 Kenji symbols - I only know about 300."
"I guess you'll have to watch tv and let the host read you the paper." I joked.
"It makes no sense to me." he added.
Our car continued through sections of specifically laid out rice fields, which had nothing to show for themselves save the dried, crusted leftovers of the fall harvest. The air was still cool. As we made our way to the foothills of the mountains, the sun played coy with the earth, shyly retreating behind the clouds, and out again, casting curious shadows on the trees in the distance. The farther and farther we moved away from the city, the only people we saw were the occasional tree-trimmer, or farmer.
Along the highway, a tree bearing round fruit shaped like Christmas tree bulbs and coloured orange, gently swayed in the breeze.
"What type of fruit is that?" I asked my friend.
"Ah, I think they're called a persimmon, or something. I don't like them, so I'm not really sure." he answered. "Meg likes them though, try it when we get back."
"Maybe I'll pick one from a tree while we walk." ---
"Can you look at this map. We have to find highway 643, and I don't see it." he interrupted, handing me the folded piece of paper.
"Where are we?" I asked.
He ran his hand over the map, but had to return them to the wheel after the car began to veer off of the road. "Gimme a sec." he barked. Up ahead he noticed a gas station. "I'm going to pull over, gas is cheap today."
"Oil fell to $65 a barrel yesterday," I added. "Cheap gas all over the place."
"Well, it's never really that cheap here because most of it comes from elsewhere." he said. "But, it's cheaper than it has been, so I'll take it."
"That's why I don't have a car," I offered. "Too much money right now. Then again, so is a Happy Meal."
He filled the car as I went into the store to get some hiking essentials - chocolate bars and more cigarettes. I, apparently, had made a pact with myself that while I was on vacation, I would act as if my better judgment was as well. Not that cigarettes here were stronger or anything. The Marlboro Lights I smoked were like smoking a straw. This was the only sign of my stress. Let's be honest, it was either smoke, take out a city block with a big-hairy weapon, or go skydiving with a holey parachute... I chose smoking. Stress makes you feel like the world is limiting your options.
"We need a new soundtrack," my friend said as he plopped himself back down behind the steering wheel.
"Find that Rob Thomas song," I suggested.
He opened the console between us and carelessly rummaged through an assortment of mini-disks. "Maroon 5," he said, before throwing it off the glass of the rear window.
"You're not a fan I take it," I inquired rhetorically.
"It's like every video of theirs is one of his wet-dreams played out." he said.
"Sounds messy." I added.
He popped in a clear disk and began hitting the search button. One, two, three, four; and slowly, the sound of guitar and piano accompaniment filled the car. The voice came next.
It's never easy and you'll never know. What leaves you crying is what makes you whole. There ain't nobody who can show you how to find the surface when you're underground.
"That's a great lyric." he said, as he turned up the dial.
"Appropriate." I said, as I opened a fresh pack of cigarettes.
"That's why you're over here man, to forget about things."
"Feels more like I'm delaying them, than forgetting. I've put them on a shelf for ten days, and sure they'll collect a week's worth of dust, but I'll brush them off when I get home." I said as I exhaled a ploom of smoke. "Hey, stop the car a second!" I shouted.
"Okay, I'll pull in at the parking lot up ahead." he said.
"That's a great photograph. See how the fog is hiding the powerlines, you can just see the tip of the tower." I declared.
In the distance, power lines stretched across the countryside like robotic caterpillars. They were connected at intervals to large metal skeleton-towers, painted red and white. It was the type of juxtaposition I came to love about Japan, power lines and pagodas...21st century, and 1st century in the same shot. I jumped out of the car, opened the back door, and grabbed the camera.
To my dismay, I looked through the lens just in time to witness the fog clear, revealing too much of the tower. "Shit!, the photo's gone," I said.
"It isn't gone, it's just different. You have to find it again." he said, in an attempt to reassure. "Here, let me see the camera." He began firing away, and after about eight clicks, he took the camera away from his eye socket, and held it in front of my face. "Look," he insisted.
After exchanging photos, we capped our lenses and drove off. Not far from where we had just stopped, my friend turned the car suddenly, and took us up a short incline and onto a road atop a ridge that ran between two large vegetable gardens. On the other side of the ridge, a large flood plane snaked under bridges and continued into the mountains ahead. In the middle of the plane, a tiny stream of water trickled along, more closely resembling a natural spring than a river.
"You should see this river when it rains...full...this whole riverbed." he said.
We parked the car and walked along the river, taking pictures of the morning dew clinging to spider webs and flowers.
"Shoot on the apeture setting. You'll get some nice up-close shots of the flowers, and you can blur the backdrop." he instructed, handing me the camera.
"Look at the way the sun creates those shadows on the mountain," he said as I pointed to it.
"Shoot it, you have five-hundred pictures." he said in a stern voice.
"I'll take pictures all day, but I still wish I had the camera out for the cattle love back there!" he said, stuttering my steps as I laughed.
"Should've had the camera on your lap, so you're ready." said my friend.
"Next time. I don't think my girlfriend would appreciate pictures of cows fornicating, funny as it was." I replied.
When we got back in the car, the song came on again.
Will you still be there when the heartache ends?
"Imagine Sean Connery singing this song," my friend said as he and I burst out laughing.
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Change: it comes in steps
- Norman Mailer
In the wake of the election of Barack Obama for President of the United States, the notion of change is swimming vigorously in the currents of global conversation. And as the President-Elect mounted the podium in Chicago's Grant Park, Tuesday night, he was greeted with an overwhelming sense that this change, this reformation of the familiar, was not only welcomed by the American electorate, but spilled from their bodies in the form of tears and chants of YES WE CAN.
As important as the election of the first African-American President in the history of the United States is, we must not live to dwell in this numbing state of euphoria. Though I do not doubt the visceral desire of the American citizenry for change, I fear the election of Barack Obama will be seen as change itself.
Alcoholics Anonymous relies on 12 steps to kick addictions, a personal journey that begins with the all-important first step; admitting there is a problem. We citizens of the world must remind ourselves change also comes in steps, and that this election has cemented merely the first; a person with a strong belief in the power of communities.
Monday, November 03, 2008
War Photography
A young Tutsi man turns his head, as if sitting for a closeup, exposing a series of deep laceration scars on his scalp and cheeks; with half of his right ear missing, he wonders if anybody is listening...
In a bunker in war-torn Grozny, a Chechen rebel clutching a M-4 assault rifle with white knuckles, lets out a battle-cry captured in the silence of black and white photography...
These images are but a few examples of the places and events which American photojournalist and war photographer James Nachtwey has seen, and been witness. His images equal the power of the explosions that have ripped through Grozny, and Sarajevo, leaving us to wonder who, or what type of evil can explain the pieces leftover.
The importance of capturing humanity at its worst in order to hope for the best, is the driving force for Nachtwey, who has photographed acts of war, terror and human suffering from the African famines of the early 1990s, to 9/11. For Nachtwey, news of these and other tragedies like them are most intimately and honestly captured in photographs. It remains a mystery to him (and myself) that humanity could be pushed to such liminality, that the only means of defense, the only means of hope, the only act of freedom, is to kill that which shares our suffering...our fellow human beings.
It is hard to deny the power of photography. Photojournalists force us to look not only with our eyes, but with conscious reflection at the consequences of human suffering. Nachtwey's quest to stop the cycle of human violence through photographs -a quest undeniably noble and necessary- begs some questions as to whether or not such a revelation of understanding can be instigated by silent observers - the photojournalist. Are not these photographs simply lost in the milieu of images we see everyday?
There is a visceral haunt that festers in the minds of photojournalists; they see the violence; they capture a newly-fired bullet leaving a white-hot chamber; but they cannot move the targets, lest they should become targets themselves - they can do nothing to stop the violence in the heat of the moment. Like journalists, whose pen is their pistol, the knowledge we gain from war photography is in retrospect, forever carrying the hope of never again.
Nachtwey has tasked himself with understanding something much bigger than himself; for war is a needle in the vein of humanity. It blurs our vision and dilates our pupils with power and greed, leaving precious life in the blind spot.
Perhaps it is too easy look away;
too easy to say their problems are a world away;
to convince ourselves that they are them,
not us.
To do this, is to deny that the sun shines and rain is wet.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Away from me
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Let`s Go (let go)
when nobody is looking at me.
But you just can`t find the time,
and I mumble the words I want to rhyme.
I`m a window, you`re the curtain,
what you`re hiding, I`m not quite certain.
I`m the rowboat on an angry sea,
you`re the rippled reflection staring up at me.
So, let`s go,
through the trees, past the forest
where we can witness heaven
on our knees.
Let`s go,
through the city, past the limits
through the neighborhoods
of simple ways, the good old days.
Get lost in traffic lights, crumpled maps
and afternoon naps.
Cloud your conscience in the rain;
barefeet on pavement doesn`t feel the same.
This cold that surrounds you now,
sets in without a sound, but my hands
to hold you up are bound.
Pick up the leftover pieces of me,
and put them back together
like I`m your puzzle.
Your ink outlines me like a muzzle
as I stare with blank eyes from the wall,
didn`t get the chance
to lay down beside you.
Let`s go,
to your bedroom so I can come
to know you well, promise
I won`t kiss and tell.
This is a secret for you and me
two locks,
but you have the only key.
You are my care-taker,
my heart-breaker,
the pepper to my salt-shaker,
fork and knife, save my life
plan written down in dreams
so it seems
the stars keep moving back on me.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Reflections
of rain on the glass;
The bathroom mirror
still remembers the way
your face looks when you smile;
the candle`s still glows
to warm your hands;
the naked piano keys don`t
dance without your fingers.
All I see in the window
is myself without you;
as my saddness runs down the glass.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Funding Artists: a sign of the times
While Atwood makes the case that government funding for the artistic community is vital, Jenish seems to think that funding should only go to those that have talent, 'and precious few really do.'
Though he doesn't offer a definition of what 'talent' might be, he opens the closest of literary and artistic creativity -- embodied throughout the 20th century by such names as; Morley Callaghan, Sinclair Ross, Frederick Philip Grove, Ernest Buckler, Stephen Leacock, Gabrielle Roy, and artists Emily Carr, A.Y. Jackson, and Jean Paul Lemieux -- to make the case that these artists were not government funded and were able to produce works of high artistic merit and inspiration. And he is not wrong, they did.
Morley Callaghan was a Governor-General Award winning novelist (1951), who began publishing in the late 1920s. Sinclair Ross was known for his novel As for Me and My Horse (1941). Frederick Philip Grove, a immigrant from Western Prussia (now Poland), was frequently published in many genres until his death in 1948. Ernest Buckler, a mathematician from Nova Scotia became famous for his The Mountain and the Valley (1952). And rounding out the writers, the legendary Stephen Leacock, who died in 1948.
As for artists, Jenish names the Canadian icon Emily Carr, a native of British Columbia who drew her inspiration from the indigenous peoples of the Pacific Northwest of Canada, who died in 1945. Also, Alexander Young (A.Y.) Jackson -- founder of the Group of Seven artists who rose to fame in Canada during the 1920s -- who became famous with his painting Red Maple (1914).
Jenish was right to highlight their creative brilliance and their influence on Canadian culture heritage. However, while his appropriate name-dropping may seem clever, his article illustrates an ignorance to context. Yes, they had all established their careers pre-1957 --when the Government of Canada began subsidizing artists --but this time period is left unexplored in this article.
If he had bothered to, he would have discovered that there is a difference in the lives of artists then and artists now.
The nature of entertainment was different prior to the late 1930s, when televisions were first made commercially available. The average household got their entertainment, not from hours upon hours of cartoons, video games, and movies, but from novels, and radio plays.
In addition, what we consider cultural experience is different today than it was then. Prior to the television-revolution, people were more likely to get their entertainment from the theatre, art galleries, and novels. If you took a poll today, I'm willing to bet that many people would consider going to a foreign film, a football game, or a fashion show a cultural experience.
In sum, artists today live in a ultra-competitive creative world and face illegitimacy not only from critics, not only from other artists, but from other artistic and cultural mediums like television, movies, the Internet, and a plethora of sporting events.
Just because art -- be it in the form of the novel, sculpture, or painting -- doesn't seem to have the prominence it once had, doesn't mean that its funding is not important. Jenish's argument does little more than to highlight the conservative attitude toward public spending -- and that's fine -- but if that's the argument you're going to make, considering the whole picture and not just pieces of the puzzle would be a better way to make the argument.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Politics
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Backyards in New York City
Monday, October 13, 2008
You, Me and Democracy
Friday, October 03, 2008
CFL or NFL?
The League and its American counterpart have always shared the continent, and both are rich in history. While the American league featured the NFL Championship until the merger of the American Football League (AFL) and the NFL in 1967 created the Super Bowl, the CFL (offically formed in 1958) can trace its origins back to the 1860s.
Growing up in Windsor Ontario gave me the chance to indulge in both forms of the game. During the high school week I played football the Canadian way, on the weekend I watched football the American way. To this day I watch both leagues.
If you ever get the chance to attend a CFL game live, say in Winnipeg, or Edmonton, or Calgary, you might be swept away by the seemingly cult following on which the CFL game survives. With only eight teams in the league, over the course of the 20th century some storied rivalries have developed. From Calgary and Edmonton to Hamilton and Toronto, these games have polarized fans, and have helped provide heat to the simmering crazy of game day at Ivor Wynne Stadium, for example.
However, the history of the CFL has seen teams become renamed, plagued by season after season of financial losses, with Ottawa's own team returning only to disappear four seasons later. While the NFL has seen teams relocate -- the St. Louis Rams from Los Angeles and the Indianapolis Colts from Baltimore --and has had teams leave and return again --the Oakland Raiders returned from Los Angeles and the Cleveland Browns reincarnated --these goings-on never seem to affect the financial success of the NFL.
If a team opens up in a new NFL city --the Jacksonville Jaguars, for example -- they land in an untapped resource of NFL followers, and the market soon expands on this. In the CFL, not only does the league not have enough money to infiltrate new football markets, when they do open a new team, the following isn't always there.
This is not an argument for Canadian football fans lacking a passion for football, or that the CFL lacks history; after all, the Grey Cup saw its 95th game last season! This is about marketing.
After many seasons watching both CFL and NFL games, I believe the NFL began doing something the CFL should have, long ago. PICK A DAY TO PLAY!!
It's hardly an epiphany or a ground-breaking revelation to proclaim that people like routines. The NFL has created its own image in the cornerstone of routine in people's lives --the same way that Hockey Night in Canada has also. The way the NFL clusters its games on one day --Sunday --has shoehorned itself into the lives of ordinary Americans.
The CFL doesn't do this; games could be on Thursday, Friday, or Saturday afternoons for example, which makes their tv schedule hard to follow.
Of course we can't chastise the CFL totally, the NFL has more money. Ever wonder why? The Super Bowl, Monday Night Football (now Sunday Night Football), have become regular events because they fit nicely into everybody's schedule, and everybody knows when the games are played. When is the Super Bowl? the first Sunday in February (it moved from the third Sunday in January); when is Sunday Night Football? EVERY SUNDAY NIGHT, like clockwork.
The bottom line; when you cement your games into the convenient routines of ordinary people, they will watch, they will become FANatics. The CFL needs a Sunday night!
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Harbour Leaves
Billowing rain clouds shaped like pillows
pout as they silently float past.
Giant arms of rock hug the harbour,
as my pen catches them trying to
embrace like long-lost lovers.
High above the town, a castle
keeps watch over the inlet waters,
as it waits for a ship to pass below.
The island's weather has
been recorded on its stones
and its tears have been
blown cold and dry
by the north
Fishing boats are docked on the opposite shore;
four or more rest out of season.
Wooden-covered island houses coloured like rainbows
are scattered amongst the rock,
while their roofs are littered with golden leaves
as they fall from autumn trees.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Ginsberg & Friends
Take three deep
mind breaths
and forget everything you know -
dock the censorship
and open your eyes.
The poems read like
uncooked rants from
the bleeding heart of chaos;
Who's words appear as naked as he was on stage;
reliving his nightmares on stage.
He mocked America;
taunted America;
begged a cross-dressing America to take off her clothes;
Wrote to Gary Snyder through
a holy cloud of laughing gas;
visited Kerouac in Queens, while Hunke talked to Kinsey;
Cried for Cassidy to beat him while
he screamed crazed confessions to
the secret hero of his poems.
He read Blake; heard Blake; saw Blake in 1948.
1952 - starred as David in JC Holmes' Go -
Holmes kept going until 1988.
Howl on trial 56;
elders screaming
while he was riding around in green automobiles
shouting Europe!Europe!
He saw afternoon in Seattle,
and road the Witchita vortex
all the way to Tangier where
Burroughs went to the junk-house for a naked lunch.
O'Hara gone in 1966;
1968 - Cassidy counts railway ties until he dies.
Wrote eulogies for Kerouac, 1969;
Converted to California-Buddhism
like B. Kaufman (b.1925 -d.1986), who spent the 1950s speaking poetry
into San Fransisco cars -
sat on Carson's couch in 1970.
No Pulitzer;
No Poet Laureate;
No Lew Welch after 23 May 1971.
National Book Award in 72.
Ask him about
the Jester, Carl Solomon, Rockland,
O'Hara's ghost wandering Fire Island, Moloch, Buddhism, Natalie Jackson, Cassidy,
suicidal dreams, penetration,
Dr. Williams, Louis Ginsberg,
J. Edger Hoover, the West,
Kerouac, Kammerer,
secret police, state terror,
anger, self-loathing,
the callous stench in the capitol air,
what research shows,
partying with Kesey and the Angels,
hitchhiking with Snyder,
the virtues of Corso,
the sins of Times Square,
the cold-water flats of the East Village, the apartments on the Negro streets,
the couches and blowing smoke rings from tea,
the sage-like advice of Rexroth,
the cottage in Berkeley,
3119 Fillmore Street,
Ferlinghetti shining the City Lights on Howl,
Uncle Max, Orlovsky,
& Naomi.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Video Sites Sharing More Than Entertainment?
These days, you can see just about anything on the internet. If it has a name, you will most likely find it. From Surf the Channel, which boasts an impressive catalogue of streaming movies and popular television shows from around the world, to Knickerpicker.com, where women (and most likely a few gentlemen) can watch real models strut down the runway in order to get a visual before ordering lingerie - the internet has everything!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
An Atheist’s Best Friend, or Light in the Dark of Night
At the end of The Dark Knight, the latest addition to the Batman canon, viewers were left with the image of the Joker – played brilliantly by the late Health Ledger – hanging upside down, staring a fatal tumble from the steel canopy of Gotham City in the face, while Batman – played by Christian Bale – looks on, and then leaves him hanging in the balance. It would have been too easy, perhaps, for Batman to unclench his fist and send the Joker his final punch-line, but Batman would never do such a thing.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
NRA Barbeques and Texas Afternoons
It’s hardly surprising that the most recognizable public figure, next to the Pope perhaps, is the President of the
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
The Sycophant and the Big Mouth
I have studied politics for several years; at Carleton University, at Mike’s Place, in the locker room, walking down the street, at the bookstore - everywhere. During these conversations, doubtless, I have traversed the political spectrum, ideologically and even emotionally, with whomever I happen to be talking. And while I have become engaged with several different types of political minds - academics, students, street-poets - I can tell you this: politics is responsible for two types of people: the sycophant, and the big mouth.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Houseless, not homeless.
I Went Walking
under newly-lit street-lamps
suggesting bed time;
past the parked cars and
garbage bins dragged to the curb;
past extinguished porch-lights
that say without saying 'do not disturb.'
I walked through intersections,
under traffic lights reflected off the
vacant pavement below.
The midnight wind my compass tonight,
as I walk in the direction it blows;
by the corners of foundations
where it whistles going past,
as the baggy underarms of my jacket
swell like sails on a mast.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Hidden Gems
Have you ever taken a minute to look at your bookshelf, I mean really look at it? If you’re like me, you wonder how you ever thought you’d have the time to read all of those books. Somewhere during metamorphosis, the feeling changes from a private relaxation technique, to obsession, before arriving at ominous.
I’ve been thinking about a couple of things, and wondered if any of you were as well. As this blog may hint, I love to read, so much so, that I can’t pick a favourite author. It has become the ‘what’s your favourite movie’ question. The answers lie in different time zones it seems. I will tell you they definitely lie in different bookstores. In keeping with this blog’s first post, I must reiterate that, while I don’t HATE bookstores like Chapters, or Coles…they just don’t have what I’m looking for. It seems to me that all shelves are filled with Prize-winners and top-ten lists. Nevermind the books-to-movie, movie-to-book cover books; No Country for Old Men was a great novel first.
Between 1950 and 1956, Jack Kerouac wrote eleven, full-length novels, and I’m willing to bet the average Canadian reader will only find On the Road on (most) bookstore shelves. If you asked a manager why this is, he or she would probably tell you, these titles sell best. Sure they will, everytime Oprah adds a new book to her list, the next day you can’t find one on the shelves of these Top-Ten bins. This is more than a pet-peeve; as I believe it points to a bigger issue. This kind of marketing, limits the public’s consumption of literature. Certainly, it reduces a given author’s entire canon to hiding in the shadows.
Think I’m kidding; I’ve already mentioned Kerouac, what about…Canadian poet Glen Downie, author of Wishbone Dance, Desire Lines, and most recently Loyalty Management. If you look in the Canadian poetry section of any Chapters under D, you won’t find Glen Downie, but Gord Downie and his collection Coke Machine Glow. Don’t get me wrong, I like Gord’s collection, but I can’t help but wonder which came first, the book of poetry or the Juno-winning rock band?
If you wander over to the Drama section, you might find Arthur Miller’s work; at least the Crucible and Death of a Salesman. What about All My Sons, or A View from the Bridge. I’m not saying this happens with every author, I’m merely noting some important omissions, and folks, the list could go on and on.
For this reason, I have become a fan of hunting for those hidden gems. The dank, stale air of a used bookstore, while a potent reciepe for nausua, is the best place to shop for books. One of the benefits of living in Ottawa, is that there are many great used bookstores to hunt in. It was in one of these used bookstores, where I came across an original copy of The Old Man and the Sea. I paid $20 for it, as it turns out, it’s worth about $2000.
This isn’t about dollar value for these old books, it’s about finding a hidden gem. How many of you have found an old book with a personal message from the 60s; or a note from son to father. It lets you know how far the book has come to get to you. Now that, I find interesting.While I'm Young (promises)
and run them through my hair;
I'll count my chickens before they hatch, and
lose sleep dreaming of tomorrows and tomorrows -
I won't rest to dwell on yesterdays.
I'll run on empty and rejuvenate my body
with toxins concocted for its destruction -
red bull and coca-cola (I'm thinking of you).
I'll walk in my sleep until I crash in road-side
roach motels that charge a quarter for air -
empty the mini bar and head for the next great rave.
I'll speak before I think,
I'll waltz the Devil's dance
before I follow faith's first step;
I'll travel the hard road, so I'll know
to appreciate the ease of those paved smooth;
I'll live my life in poetry,
before I write it down in prose;
I'll change masks and occupations
so they don't change me;
While I'm young I'll live forever,
and I'll run for just as long;
While I"m young I'll have my thoughts
and when I'm old I'll have my scars.
Today we'll walk over the smoldering ambers
of yesterday's fire losing steam;
While I'm young I'll learn to sleep,
and when I'm old I'll learn to dream.
Remember the Novel? How Future Technologies are rewriting the words of the past
After a lifetime spent teaching English literature to Yale University students, literary critic Harold Bloom was taken aback, when in 2003, the National Book Foundation – presiding over the famous National Book Award – named Stephan King the year’s recipient of its National Book Foundation Award. In an article penned for the Los Angeles Times, Bloom sited that , ‘by awarding it to King they recognize nothing but the commercial value of his books, which sell in the millions but do little for humanity than keep the publishing world afloat.’ What Bloom has shrewdly vocalized is the decline in the value of first-rate literature. Names like Hemingway, Fitzgerald, O’Connor, Mailer, Plath and other literary giants have been assigned to the dust of used bookstore shelves.
During a recent trip to